


heliophilia

by bitterlee



Category: Glee
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Character Study, College, Depression, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Medication, Mentions of Homophobic Violence, Mentions of OCD, PTSD, Therapy, brief mentions of eating disorders, too many ellipses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterlee/pseuds/bitterlee
Summary: Blaine Anderson's first year at NYU is documented through a series of meetings with his therapist, and several over-exposed polaroid photos.





	1. The White T-Shirt (October, 2015)

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, this is dedicated to Tiff, without whom I would never have met Blaine. secondly, but not second-most, thank you to Artemis for their tireless beta and endless encouragement. I'll try to keep this explanation brief.  
> this fic takes place from November 2015 - June 2016, which, according to the airing schedule, is canon compliant. this makes Kurt a 23 year old college senior, and Blaine a 22 year old college freshman. geez. allowing for his year at NYADA, and then his gap year, this is near enough correct. he lost eight months in there somewhere, but I can't pretend to understand how the timeline works. I'm not willing to rewatch s6 to clarify these points. there are also several other continuity errors, including: how did they get a piano into an upstairs room in a townhouse? how do Kurt and Blaine pay their rent? when is their wedding anniversary? what did Blaine really major in? the answers to these questions are not found within.  
> in this fic there is a lot of discussion about mental health, prescription medication, homophobia (including incidents of homophobic violence), relationship issues, and abusive parents. be aware that Blaine's father is never present, but he is discussed. Blaine is dealing with an MI that went undiagnosed for most of his young adult life, and an ED that went entirely undiagnosed, and as such, his healing process is a rocky road, so to speak. if his language or thought processes seem codependent or otherwise unhealthy, it's because they are.  
> so, without further ado, several thousand words of Blaine.

 

 

 

> **heliophilia;** _an attraction or adaptation to sunlight, as the sunflower._

* * *

_“Mom?"  
_ _  
_ _"Hi, sweetie," his mom said gently.  
_ _  
_ _"What's up?"  
_ _  
_ _"I just wanted to call and tell you that I will be at Santana and Brittany's wedding."  
_ _  
_ _"Oh," Blaine paused and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, "Did you call Santana's mom and tell her?"  
_ _  
_ _"Yes, dear," his mom laughed, and said kindly, "I know what RSVP means."  
_ _  
_ _"Okay," Blaine hoped his confusion was apparent in his voice.  
_ _  
_ _His mom sighed. "I will be at the wedding, Blaine. Just me."  
_ _  
_ _"Oh."  
_ _  
_ _"I'm sorry," she whispered.  
_ _  
_ _"Is it because of the -"  
_ _  
_ _"The divorce, mostly, but also the lesbian thing."  
_ _  
_ _Blaine sat down at his piano and rested his free hand on the curved wood of the upright lid. He knitted his eyebrows together and took a few deep breaths. Finally, he said, "Well, fine. It's not like it's me who's getting married."  
_   
_"Oh, baby," his mom murmured, "I'm so sorry."_

 

“Blaine?” Kurt’s voice interrupted Blaine’s thoughts, and he turned towards it.

“Yeah?” he called, after a beat.

Kurt poked his head into the studio, frowning slightly. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah?” Blaine winced at the question in his own tone.

“You have an appointment in twenty minutes, Blaine,” Kurt reminded gently.

“Oh, shit,” Blaine huffed. He moved to close the piano and sweep his sheet music into a haphazard pile. “I don’t have time to change.”

“No,” Kurt mused. He had come into the room, and was leaning against the doorframe with a slightly bemused expression on his face. “You don’t usually forget.”

“Is this a good or a bad sign?” Blaine murmured as he rose from the piano bench and turned to retrieve his messenger bag from underneath it.

“That’s a question for your therapist,” Kurt informed him cheerily.

Blaine was surprised by a bright flash of light and the unmistakable _click_ of a camera going off. He stood up quickly, banging his elbow against the piano bench in his haste.

“Kurt!” he protested, rubbing his elbow in exasperation, “I’m not even dressed!”

Kurt merely laughed as the polaroid camera in his hands whirred noisily and ejected the offending photograph. He shook it idly, and stepped further into the room to place the polaroid on the closed lid of Blaine’s secondhand piano. With his smile still lingering, Kurt pressed a gentle kiss to Blaine’s cheek at the same time he pressed the un-developed photo against Blaine’s chest in a silent request for him to take it.

Blaine took the offered photo, and smiled back at Kurt. He shouldered his bag, and tucked the photo into the front pocket without looking at it.

“You’ll be late if you don’t leave…” Kurt felt Blaine’s pockets idly and pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “Five minutes ago.”

“Shit!” Blaine repeated, with more vehemence this time, and took his phone from Kurt. He left the apartment with a hurried “Bye!” thrown over his shoulder.

Once out on the sidewalk, he paused briefly to compose himself, fully aware of his shabby staying-at-home-to-rehearse apparel, consisting of well loved jeans and a loose white t-shirt that may have once belonged to Kurt. With an aggravated sigh, he hailed a cab and hurriedly texted his therapist to let her know he would be late.

Blaine was never late. Or, at least, never to therapy. He hurriedly bundled himself into his cab, and told the driver his destination. Once they were safely into the thick of the late afternoon traffic, he leaned back against the cracked leather seat and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

On his first day at NYU, he’d made a beeline straight for the guidance counselor’s office and outlined the last year of his life to her. She had immediately given him several numbers to call, and promised him that her open door policy was always a reality for him. Blaine had smiled politely as he took the business cards into his shaking hands and left her office. He hadn’t been back since.

He got lucky in that the first therapist he visited turned out to be the right choice for him, and Blaine was silently, immeasurably grateful for that. His therapist was a quiet, matronly woman named Joe. She was quick, her humor was dry, and his first meeting with her had involved nothing but discussion of how much Fun Home had deserved all of its wins at the past Tony Awards.

Four meetings later she had referred him to a psychologist, who in turn had presented him with a diagnosis, and Blaine had called his mother that evening to tell her that he had, in medical terms, Major Depressive Disorder. And anxiety. And an eating disorder.

“Yes, baby, I know,” his mother had said, her tone warm and devoid of other inflection.

“I still love you, Blaine,” she had murmured, and Blaine had sobbed into his pillow for an hour, ignoring all attempts that both she and Kurt had made to soothe him.

“I’ve never been disappointed in you,” she’d told him. “I know you’ve been disappointed in yourself, but I’ve never once wished for you to be any different.”

_You could have told me that in high school_ , Blaine had wanted to spit at her. But instead he’d said thank you, love you, I’ll call you again soon, and hung up the phone.

Kurt had been sitting on the edge of the bed, his face drawn with concern, and Blaine had rolled over onto his back and said to the ceiling, _“How often have you been disappointed in me?”_

“Hey. You gettin’ out?” his cabbie barked, rapping his knuckles on the partition. He told Blaine the amount of his fare, and Blaine fumbled for his money, unintentionally giving a bigger tip than he intended as he walked away without his change.

Blaine was uncharacteristically distracted as he mumbled a quick hello to the receptionist and hurried into Joe’s office.

“Hello, Blaine,” she greeted, a smile lighting up her round, welcoming face.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he blurted, in lieu of a greeting.

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Are you having a bad day?”

Blaine nodded mutely as he lifted the strap of his bag over his head and set it on the floor next to the sofa. He eased himself onto it slowly, and lay on his back with his knees bent.

Joe waited for him to speak.

“I didn’t think I was,” he finally said. “But I mean, I’m late, and that’s because I completely forgot my appointment was today.”

“Did you lose track of time, or did you actually forget?” Joe asked.

Blaine couldn’t detect any inflection in her voice, and from where he lay, he could see nothing but the blades of the ceiling fan as they moved sedately in a hypnotic circle.

“I just forgot,” he admitted.

Joe didn’t respond. That was one of Blaine’s favorite things about her. He’d been seeing a therapist in Lima who did a lot of hmm-ing and uh-huh-ing that set Blaine on edge and made him want to loudly inquire as to how his comment about the weather could have possibly revealed anything about his psyche. Joe processed everything quietly, and she never asked, “And how did that make you feel?” unless the moment really called for it.

“What were you doing?”

Blaine heard her shifting in her seat, and the _click_ of her pen told him the session had officially begun. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his mouth before replying, “I was rehearsing. Piano. I have an assessment at the end of the semester.”

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

Blaine shrugged his shoulders as best as he could with them pressed to the sofa and said, “You know me. Preparedness and all that.”

“Are you sure it’s just preparedness?”

Blaine’s ‘Yes.’ was fully formed and ready when she said, gently, “Really think about that before you answer me, Blaine.”

He stopped, biting down on his tongue. “I guess not.”

“Blaine,” Joe chided. “Don’t make me bring out the hmms and haws.”

Blaine laughed and rolled himself onto his shoulder to grin at her. “No, it’s not. It’s not preparedness.”

Joe nodded in response to his smile, and scribbled something as he lay back down and laced his hands together over his chest.

“We both know that you’re an excellent pianist, Blaine,” she said. “You’re anxious that this is going to be a repeat of your first year at NYADA.”

“Yes,” Blaine said immediately.

“What about your first year here is different from your first year at NYADA?” she inquired, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

“Kurt,” Blaine replied.

“I thought we agreed several weeks ago that ‘Kurt’ was not a whole answer, Blaine.”

“I have Kurt,” he amended.

“Yes, but are your grades better?”

“Yeah,” he conceded.

“You have friends at school? Your professors like you? You’re passionate about the material you’re doing and the department you’re in?”

“Yes to all of that,” Blaine said with a smile, praying silently to himself she would stop there.

“Are you happier?”

The receptionist could have dropped a paperclip on the floor in the front office and Blaine would have been able to hear it in the silence that followed her question.

Joe gave him a moment before prompting, “I can’t psychoanalyze silence.”

“No,” he whispered.

“You’re not happier?”  
  
Blaine licked his lips and repeated, “No.”

“That’s okay, Blaine.”

He sat up, and somehow, past the lump in his throat, managed to say, “It is?”

“Yes, it is,” Joe said.

“I feel like I should be just...giddy with happiness,” Blaine said quietly, his entire body tense as he sat on the edge of the sofa. “Because I mean...I have Kurt. I thought that’s what was wrong with me. I thought once I had him back, I would be able to make music and be involved and just...be me again.”

“Blaine,” something in Joe’s tone made him jerk his head towards her. She waited for him to look her in the eye before she said, “You’ve been struggling with this for quite some time. All the Kurt incident did was trigger you.”

“Trigger me,” Blaine repeated, biting his lip. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and his hands reflexively clenched into fists.

“You know what a trigger is, Blaine, we talked about them before.”

Blaine thought back to the grueling session in which his diagnosis had been discussed, and he nodded quickly, not wishing to dredge that up today. “Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

“Do you? I don’t think you want to blame Kurt for what happened to you. And I’m not telling you to. In fact, you shouldn’t. But you also shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“I said,” Blaine stopped, and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “The day he broke up with me. Again. I told him that I would never forgive him. I said that. God, I was so hurt, and angry, and he didn’t even give me a reason, and I said I’d never forgive him.”

“Did he forgive you for saying that?”  
  
Blaine laughed bitterly and said, “He married me.”

“Did you forgive him for breaking it off?”

“I married him.”

“So the person you haven’t forgiven is yourself.”

“I guess so.”

“You had a right to be angry, Blaine.”  
  
“I meant it at the time, and two months later I was on a plane back to Lima, and not even a week after that I had forgiven him.”

“That’s good, Blaine. Holding grudges does nothing but hurt you. You just need to learn how to stop holding grudges against yourself.”

“Yeah,” Blaine muttered, but his posture relaxed, and he managed a small smile.

“What were you working on?” Joe leaned back in her seat and clicked her pen idly. “At the piano, I mean.”

“Oh,” Blaine perked up at the inquiry, and scooted forward on the sofa. “I’m actually working on something original right now. It’s been slow going, but I thought if I could finish it before my assessment I could use it as my performance piece.”

“That’s really good, Blaine,” Joe smiled. “It’s good that you’re motivated to create something.”

“Yeah,” Blaine ran a hand through his hair and moved to lay back on the sofa. “I cannot wait for the day when it’s second nature to me again.”

“You’re improving every day,” Joe assured him. “Dealing with this kind of thing is never just a steady uphill battle. There are bad days. More bad days than good, it probably feels like. But a little bit of spacing out isn’t the end of the world.”

“I don’t usually do it at the piano, though,” Blaine murmured. “And in the cab on the way over, I was thinking about the day I told my mom about my diagnosis.”

“Why were you thinking about that day?”

“I really don’t know,” Blaine said honestly. “I hadn’t thought about it in a while. Earlier I was thinking about when my mom called and told me she was coming to Santana’s wedding, but my dad wasn’t.”

“Could it be that the finalization of your parent’s divorce is bringing those memories to the surface?”

“Maybe?” Blaine twisted his wedding ring around his finger and looked at her inquisitively. “I guess so.”

“Do you miss your dad?”  
  
“No,” Blaine said immediately.

Joe laughed. “Well, alright, then it’s not that.”

“I think, maybe,” Blaine rolled his shoulders minutely and said hesitantly, “I think I might be afraid that I’m going to disappoint everybody again.”

“That sounds reasonable.”  
“Really?”

“Well, no, there's no way you could possibly disappoint anyone in your life whose opinion actually matters,” Joe said with a degree of certainty in her voice. “But that is a fear that you have frequently, and it would explain the nature of your distractions today.”

“Whew,” Blaine flopped back onto the sofa and let his arm hang over the edge of the sofa. His knuckles dragged against the carpet. “Sometimes this is like pulling teeth.”

“You think your dad is disappointed in you,” Joe stated, almost offhandedly. “And you were afraid your mom was disappointed in your diagnosis?”

“No. In fact, I remembered that she specifically told me she wasn’t. That she never had been.”

Joe waited patiently as he collected his words.

“I think I was a little disappointed in my mom,” he said at last. “And I thought about what I said to Kurt after I hung up on my mom. I asked him if he’d ever been disappointed in me.”

“You were disappointed in your mom?”

“Don’t you want to know what Kurt said?”

Joe leveled him with a look that Blaine could feel without even looking at her, and he laughed, a light, airy sound, before he said, “Yeah, I remember being really annoyed when she told me she’d never been disappointed in me. She said something about never once wishing I would change or something like that, and I remember I was mad she’d never told me that while I was in high school. I mean, with my dad reacting to my coming out the way he did, I really could have used some more support from her.”

“Did you tell her that?”  
  
“No, of course not. My mom and I were doing really well at the time, and I didn’t feel like bringing up things that happened years ago.”

“Alright. So, the burning question, what did Kurt say?”

“He said yes,” Blaine closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. “But I guess you knew he would. At least he doesn’t lie to me.”

It took Joe a moment to respond. “I can’t know how Kurt feels about what has transpired between you two, regrettable or otherwise, but I can tell that you need to talk to him about it.”

“I was afraid you would say that,” Blaine groaned.

Joe scribbled something on her notepad and ripped off a piece of paper to give to Blaine. “There. That’s your prescription.”

In her large, loopy handwriting, Joe had written ‘Talk to Kurt!!’ and drawn a small smiley face underneath it.  
  
“Thanks,” Blaine said dryly, but not without humor.

“Any time,” Joe replied somberly. “As long as it’s a time we have previously agreed upon.”

“Speaking of which,” Blaine pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. “Same time next week?”

“No,” Joe said. “I want you to be on time next week.”  
  
Blaine laughed then, a wholehearted, sunny laugh, and shook his head. “Fine. Fine, I’ll be on time next week.”  
  
“Have a good week, Blaine,” Joe said warmly as he stood and collected his bag. “Say hello to Kurt for me. That’d be a good segue into the talk.”

“You’re a marriage counselor now?” he teased, as he moved towards the door.

“I’ve been married for forty years. I’m better than a marriage counselor. Now go home. Talk to your man. And be safe!” she called after him as he left the office.

He smiled pleasantly at the receptionist as he left the office, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to be irritated at the hassle of getting a cab and dealing with cranky cabbies coming to the ends of their shifts.

“I’m home!” he called as he came inside, dumping his bag unceremoniously on the floor behind the couch. “Kurt! Come kiss me!”

“You come kiss me!” Kurt yelled back from the bedroom. Blaine heard him say, “No, dad, not you, don’t be silly,” and laughed to himself.

“Hey, Burt,” Blaine sang as he came into the bedroom and saw Kurt sitting on the bed with his phone pressed to his ear. “I’m gonna kiss Kurt now, so just hang on for one second.”

There was a gruff utterance from the other end of the line, but Kurt huffed out a laugh and took the phone away from his face as Blaine kissed him gently on the mouth and whispered, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Kurt replied. “My dad also says hi.”

“Your dad can also say ‘hi’ for himself,” Burt’s tinny voice joked from somewhere to Blaine’s right.

With another soft kiss to Kurt’s chin and a smile, Blaine stood up and took the phone from Kurt’s hand and raised it to his ear.

“Hello, Burt,” Blaine greeted his father-in-law with his usual default polite tone, and Burt chuckled warmly as he responded, “Hi, Blaine.”

“Okay, that's all well and good,” Kurt interrupted, “but someone's birthday is coming and they can't be here when their family is discussing top secret plans for it.”

A feeling of warmth spread through Blaine when Kurt said family, making his fingers tingle and his eyes fill with tears. He nodded slowly, afraid he would choke if he tried to speak, and turned to leave the room.

Kurt stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. Blaine felt his gentle fingers on his pulse point, and he didn't turn back to look at Kurt, but he didn't pull his arm away.

“Dad,” Kurt said finally, “I have to call you back. Yeah. I love you too. I will. Bye.”

Blaine heard the soft thud of Kurt’s phone being dropped into the nightstand drawer, and then Kurt was there, wrapping his arm around Blaine’s waist and pressing kisses to the back of his neck.

“What's wrong?” Kurt asked, point-blank.

Blaine didn't respond. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper Joe had given him, and held it up in front of himself.

“Talk to Kurt. Smiley face,” Kurt read. “Well, that doesn't seem too difficult. Except you're definitely not smiling.”

They both felt the unsaid hanging in the air between them, the concern in Kurt’s voice saying, ‘You haven't come home crying since you talked about senior year,’ and Blaine hated it. He hated every second of it, so he said, “I forgave you.”

Kurt froze. Blaine almost whimpered as Kurt withdrew his arms and sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

“Honey, I know,” Kurt said.

Blaine let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

“Look at me, please, Blaine,” Kurt pleaded softly.

“I forgave you a long time ago. Almost immediately. I didn't mean it Kurt,” Blaine could feel himself babbling, and he could feel himself about to cry, and then Kurt was back, holding Blaine tightly and murmuring gentle affection into his ear.

“I know, I know you forgave me,” Kurt promised, holding Blaine’s body tightly against his own. “I know. It's okay. I don't hold that against you. I love you, you know I love you.”

Blaine nodded weakly. His eyes were screwed shut, and his hands were gripping Kurt’s wrists so tightly his knuckles were white.

“You do know I love you, right?”

Blaine nodded again.

“You do know I have forgiven you, too, right?”

Blaine didn't move. He couldn't.

“Oh, Blaine,” the pain in Kurt’s tone made Blaine hiccup a sob as he was gently turned around to face Kurt. “Blaine, look at me.”

After an agonizing moment, Blaine opened his eyes, and saw that Kurt was almost crying, too. His immediate instinct was to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but he didn't know what he would then say he was apologizing for. So he didn't say anything.

“I forgive you, Blaine,” Kurt said firmly as he held Blaine’s gaze. “I forgive you. And I love you. I love you more than anything. I can't tell you I've never been upset with you, or even a little disappointed, sometimes even heartbroken or angry. But I have forgiven you. For all of it,” Blaine felt Kurt’s gentle emphasis on all and something inside of him unwound, like a deep buried tension was finally released, and he nodded.

Kurt cradled Blaine’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

They stood like that for a long moment, Blaine’s hand resting on Kurt’s waist as Kurt’s thumbs stroked Blaine’s cheeks, wiping away tears and lines of worry.

“My birthday, huh?” Blaine’s teasing broke the silence, and Kurt laughed lightly.

“Yeah, it's still a ways away, but I wanted everything ready so I wouldn't have to plan it during finals,” he explained, moving away from Blaine and turning to retrieve his phone from the nightstand. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything,” Blaine replied automatically. “I have some writing to do.”

“Ah,” Kurt raised an eyebrow at Blaine and smiled knowingly. “You're composing again?”

“Yeah,” Blaine replied hesitantly. “I am.”

Kurt smiled then, a bright, open grin, and caught Blaine in a tight hug. “That's great, Blaine.”

“I know,” Blaine moved his hands idly over Kurt’s back as he relaxed into the crushing embrace. “I'm proud of myself.”

“Good,” Kurt pulled back and kissed Blaine’s forehead. “I'm going to make dinner. Leave the studio door open?”

Blaine mumbled a ‘sure’ as he followed Kurt out of the bedroom and into the main area of their apartment. He picked his bag up off the floor and took it with him to the extra-bedroom-turned-studio where sheet music covered every available surface and the well worn wood of the floor was home to stacks of theory books and bound scores. This room had been the selling point of the apartment for them, and there had been no question about it being used as a music room. There was a window on one wall, looking out over the street and into the windows of the complex across the way, and at 2pm and 5pm every day, warm sunlight poured into the room, casting an ethereal glow over the slightly dusty curves of the piano. Blaine loved this room.

It was a shared space, Kurt was a capable pianist, and often used it as a rehearsal space for one audition or another, but Blaine’s minor in music theory meant the room was more essential to him. He spent more time here than even in their bedroom, a fact which Kurt was more than happy to relentlessly tease him about.

Blaine opened the flap of his messenger bag and pulled out the photo Kurt had given him earlier. It had long since developed, and Blaine rolled his eyes at the fuzzy, golden tones of the closeup shot of his arm in motion. He propped the photo up on the music stand of the piano, and rolled back the lid. Without a pause, he began to play. The song wasn't immediately familiar to him, but a piece of him seemed to know it, so he let it take over. Music hadn't come so naturally to him for a very long time, and he wasn't about to stop and question the song coming from somewhere inside him that he thought had been sealed off forever.

As he came back to himself towards the end of the piece, he noticed Kurt standing in the doorway, holding aloft a wooden spoon and biting his lip in a desperate attempt to hold back tears. With the last chords dying slowly in the air around them, Blaine shifted his weight on the bench to look at Kurt.

“Lovesong,” Kurt murmured, his voice thick and barely audible.

Blaine’s heart stuttered in his chest. His senior year of high school he had spent countless hours re-arranging that song into a somber, bittersweet piano piece, and he'd played it for Kurt over Skype one night. He remembers, in that second, how Kurt had been crying as he played it then, too.

“Kurt, I didn't do it on purpose,” he began, but the look on Kurt’s face caught his voice in his throat, and he stopped.

“You wrote that for me,” Kurt said evenly.

“Well, yeah, I re-arranged it for you,” Blaine muttered, guilt making him uncharacteristically surly.

“I remember,” Kurt came to stand next to Blaine at the piano, and he smiled as he reached forward with his free hand to gently press his thumb against the furrow between Blaine’s eyebrows. “You’ll get wrinkles,” he teased. “Here, hold this,” he handed Blaine the spoon, and reached for the polaroid that still balanced on the music rest.

He picked up one of Blaine’s numerous pencils, and scribbled something onto the white space below the photograph. Smiling almost triumphantly, he swapped Blaine the spoon for the photo, and pulled on Blaine’s hand until he stood.

“Read it,” he coaxed.

Blaine frowned again, and felt Kurt’s tolerant laugh more than he heard it, as he looked down at the photo.

**_‘I forgive you.’_ **

“So now you won't forget,” Kurt’s tone faked nonchalance, and Blaine immediately sat down on the piano bench, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“It's just my arm,” he finally managed, and Kurt laughed.

“It's artistic,” Kurt reasoned, sitting down on the bench next to Blaine. “And besides,” he leaned down to press a kiss to Blaine’s bicep, just below the rolled cuff of his t-shirt. “It's a very nice arm.”

Blaine rolled his eyes at that, but he was smiling. “Thank you, Kurt.”

“I love you,” Kurt said, his tone serious and firm.

“I love you, too.”

“We’re having spaghetti,” Kurt continued, rising from the bench.

“I know,” Blaine nodded towards the spoon, eyeing the remnants of what appeared to be tomato sauce still clinging to it. “Can't wait.”

Kurt scoffed fondly and left the room.

Blaine rose from the bench and turned towards the overfull shelves of music that occupied the long wall behind him. He placed the polaroid on the shelf in front of his leather bound Sondheim anthology, and smiled to himself, feeling warm and content and _happy_. With another passing glance at it, he left to follow Kurt into the kitchen, neglecting to even close the piano lid behind him.

 


	2. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE (November, 2015)

The polaroid camera sat untouched on top of Blaine’s piano for several weeks. He’d forgotten it was there, really, his brain had just accepted it as clutter and he spent those weeks shuffling it back and forth with numerous coffee cups and stacks of sheet music.

“Why’ve you never used this?” Kurt asked one day as he stood by the piano while Blaine worked. 

Blaine looked up from where he was hurriedly scribbling notations in his rehearsal book and frowned at Kurt. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, confused. 

Kurt shrugged. “Alright, well, you don’t have to.” 

“Why did you -” Blaine stopped, and seemed to see the camera for the first time. “Why did you give it to me?” 

“I didn’t,” Kurt raised his eyebrows and fixed Blaine with an amused expression. “It was in your stuff when we unpacked.”

“I’ve never had a camera,” Blaine’s frown deepened. “I don’t know where it would have- oh.” 

Kurt’s eyebrows remained raised, and he stared at Blaine expectantly. 

“It’s Sam’s,” Blaine explained. “He got it at a garage sale. He was trying to find me a hobby, y’know, after I came back from New York. The second time.”

That hung in the air between them for a long moment, and Blaine was surprised that it no longer stung to think about the day Sam had come to Blaine’s house with two acoustic guitars, a polaroid camera, and a Hello Kitty skateboard, and promptly told Blaine’s mother he was there to help Blaine ‘branch out’. Pamela had been shocked, but pleasantly so, and had refused to support Blaine in his refusal to learn how to skateboard. 

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Kurt picked the camera up off the piano and held it out to Blaine. “You need a hobby that isn’t music.”  
  
Blaine set down his practice book and took the camera. “Photography, though?” 

“You don’t have to be the next Annie Leibovitz, Blaine,” Kurt teased affectionately. “Just take pictures of things you find pretty. Or interesting. Now, I have to finish packing.”

Blaine groaned. “You’re still going?” 

“It’s only for two weeks,” Kurt told him, as though that would make the situation more appealing. 

“Yes, but it’s two weeks that you’re not in New York,” Blaine protested, following Kurt out of the music room and into their bedroom. 

_ It’s two weeks that you’re not with me, not in our bed, not in the kitchen making coffee, not in the shower singing and knocking shampoo bottles down. It’s two weeks that I'll be alone and I don't know if I've learned how to be that way again, yet.  _

“It’s just a class trip,” Kurt reminded him as he lifted his suitcase up onto the bed and unzipped it. “Now, help me pick out ten casual outfits and five formal outfits. With matching socks.” 

Blaine sighed, resigned, and reluctantly went through the motions of helping Kurt pack for his trip. This year, NYADA had arranged for their senior class to fly to Chicago and spend two weeks in the theatre district. There was a long list of productions they were going to see, so many that not even Blaine remembered them all, but Kurt was over the moon at the idea of seeing even half of them. Blaine knew he should be happy for Kurt, as this was an incredible opportunity and would probably end up being two of the best weeks of Kurt’s life, but something inside him hated everything about the idea. 

They hadn’t been apart since the wedding, not for that long, and Blaine couldn’t figure out why this was so difficult for him when it seemed to be the easiest thing in the world for Kurt. Despite what seemed like constant reassurances that Kurt would miss him, and he would be back, Blaine felt uneasy. He didn’t know how to voice his concern, seeing as he really couldn’t put his finger on just  _ what _ his concern was. 

“Blaine,” Kurt’s voice snapped him back to attention. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, noting the concern on Kurt’s face. 

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Kurt commented. 

“Yeah,” Blaine said, hoping his unspoken plea of  _ ‘don’t ask me about it’ _ came through in his tone.

“Is that good or bad?” 

“We haven’t decided yet,” Blaine sighed heavily as he moved to lie on the bed. “Joe and I. We’re just not sure.” 

“Hm,” Kurt responded neutrally. He finished rolling his socks and underwear and tucked them into his suitcase. One by one he folded his undershirts and his selected scarves, moving quietly and efficiently around the room as he finished his packing. 

Blaine was content to lie there and listen to Kurt moving in the room, smiling fondly as Kurt hummed a few bars of something, cleared his throat, hummed something else, and stopped abruptly to make an irritated noise at something he was folding. The gentle rustle of fabric and constant, reassuring presence of Kurt made Blaine feel nearly boneless, and he felt himself dozing off. 

“You’re falling asleep on me,” Kurt said. 

“Hmm,” was Blaine’s response. 

Kurt laughed, and the light affectionate sound sent a shudder through Blaine’s body. 

It was quiet again, and Blaine closed his eyes, listening. Kurt was humming pieces Blaine recognized as Cole Porter, and he mentally recited the words along with Kurt’s quiet vocalizations. A dresser drawer closed with a soft thud, and then the lid of the suitcase was being closed and zipped. Blaine felt the blankets pull as Kurt lifted it off the bed, and he heard it being set on the floor. The mattress dipped, and Blaine ached with the familiarity of Kurt’s body as he climbed into bed and lay down next to Blaine. They lay there, not touching, just quiet, and Blaine suddenly found himself trembling. 

“I can feel you shaking,” Kurt whispered, not moving. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Blaine choked out. 

“I’m going to miss you, too,” Kurt said, and it sounded like a promise. “I will come back, Blaine. I hate sleeping alone, you know that.” 

“I don’t think I’m worried you won’t come back,” Blaine murmured. “I just think I’m going to have a hard time missing you. The last time I missed you it almost-” he stopped, unable to make himself voice it. “It was hard,” he stated. “I’m afraid it's going to set me back.” 

“I know,” Kurt said simply. “But you won’t miss me in the same way, this time. Had you thought of it that way?” 

Blaine opened his eyes and sat up. “What?” 

“I’m coming back to you, Blaine,” Kurt explained gently. “I haven’t left you, you haven’t left me. There’s nobody in between us, and we’re going to talk for hours every night like the disgustingly in love honeymooners that we are. You won’t miss me like before. Like I’m never coming home.” 

“I hadn’t,” Blaine whispered, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“Well, hopefully that puts some of your fears to rest,” Kurt reached out to touch him then, and the gentle brush of his fingertips against Blaine’s shoulder grounded him, pulling him out of his head, and back into bed with Kurt. 

Blaine lay back down and curved his body towards Kurt’s. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kurt smiled at him. “We should go for a walk.”  
  
Blaine was taken aback by the abruptness of the shift in mood, but he said, “Alright.” 

“Get a sweater,” Kurt practically leapt out of bed and almost tripped over his suitcase in his haste. “And get the camera.”  
  
“Okay,” Blaine took a hoodie out of his pajama drawer and pulled it over his head before he hurried to the music room and retrieved the camera. 

Kurt was waiting for him by the front door wearing Blaine’s NYU hoodie and a beaming smile. Blaine’s suspicions melted into fondness, and he returned Kurt’s smile as Kurt reached out and grabbed Blaine’s hand to pull him out the front door. They didn’t speak as they took the four flights of stairs down to the lobby. 

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked when they were finally outside and shivering slightly in the cool fall air. 

"It's a surprise," Kurt replied cagily. "I know you love surprises."  
  
"Yeah, but I love surprises that involve cake. Or sex. Or new sheet music."  
  
"You'll like this surprise," Kurt assured him. "But there's no cake. Or sex. Or new sheet music. We could go to the sheet music store on the way home, though."  
  
"I'd rather go right home and have sex," Blaine muttered.

"Well, it wouldn't be a surprise, but I can't say I would have a problem with that arrangement," Kurt laughed.  
  
Blaine smiled at that, and reached to take Kurt's hand. Their fingers laced together easily, and they continued in comfortable silence for several blocks.

The clamor of the city was familiar background noise, and neither of them tried to talk over it. They walked, dodging businessmen shouting into their phones and tourists trying to make sense of their maps. Blaine squeezed Kurt’s hand as they passed the flower stand around the corner from their building, and the knowing smile Kurt gave him warmed Blaine to his toes. 

Blaine recognized the route Kurt was taking; this was the way to their usual coffee shop, but he couldn’t figure out why going to get coffee would be such a huge secret. He followed Kurt with no further questions, unable to wipe the persistent smile off his face. 

They were a block away from the coffee shop when Kurt took a right instead of a left, and Blaine couldn’t stop his confused frown. Kurt noticed it, he always did, and he laughed affectionately.

“Relax,” he assured Blaine, swinging their interlocked hands between them. “You’ll like it.”

It was another two blocks before Kurt stopped in front of what appeared to be a vacant building on a relatively quiet side street. Blaine took in the area, unsure of why they were stopping here.

“This installment is part of the senior project of someone who’s graduating from your school,” Kurt said, drawing Blaine’s attention. 

He frowned again, and followed Kurt’s gaze to the wall outside the building. There, in large red letters, someone had painted YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE against a black background. Time and weather had worn away the color, fading it to a washed out pewter, but the red seemed to be freshly retouched, and it stood out against the dingy painted concrete. 

Blaine was sure Kurt could hear his heart hammering inside his chest as he stared, and swallowed, and continued to stare. 

“Kurt,” he said, finally. “I don’t-”

“I was hoping you hadn’t seen this yet,” Kurt continued, almost bashfully. “I wanted to bring you down here on our anniversary,” he turned away from the wall and looked at Blaine. “But you needed it today, I think.” 

Blaine didn’t meet Kurt’s gaze immediately. He stared for another long minute, listening to the muted sounds of the city and his own pulse as it rushed in his ears. A breeze rushed past them, stirring up leaves on the sidewalk, and Blaine shivered with his whole body before he took a steadying breath and returned Kurt’s stare. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, moving forward to kiss Kurt.

Kurt hummed his response against Blaine’s mouth, and grabbed a fistful of Blaine’s sweatshirt to pull their bodies flush. When they parted, Kurt’s cheeks were flushed red, and Blaine could see the unshed tears in his eyes.  
  
“I’m going to miss you, too,” Kurt whispered. 

“I know. I know you will.” 

Kurt shook himself then, composing himself, and smiled tenderly at Blaine. “You brought the camera?” 

Blaine held it up wordlessly, and Kurt stared at him expectantly. 

“You know how to use it, I assume?” Kurt teased. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Blaine mumbled as he looked back at the wall and brought the camera to his eye. He hurriedly snapped the photo, not even thinking about anything other than getting the words in the frame. His mind was occupied with memorizing how he felt at this moment so he would always know how it felt to be sure that he was loved. The camera whirred laboriously, and when the photo finally produced itself, Blaine handed it to Kurt. 

Kurt stared for a moment at the undeveloped white blur within the frame in his hand, and then tucked it safely into the front pocket of his sweater.    
“Come on,” he said, taking Blaine’s hand. “Let’s go get coffee.” 

 

Later that evening, Blaine went into their bedroom to see the polaroid on his pillow, now with the caption,  **_“I’m always going to love you.”_ ** scrawled in vivid red ink. He blinked back his tears and took the photo to rest with the other one on the shelf in the music room. 

Kurt seemed to understand when minutes later, Blaine had him pressed into the mattress and was kissing every inch of skin readily accessible to his mouth. He carded his hands through Blaine’s hair and murmured affection into his ear, and didn’t comment when Blaine curled himself around Kurt’s body later that evening, his arms locked around Kurt’s waist and his face pressed to his shoulder blade. Kurt was unused to being the little spoon, but when he felt Blaine’s tears on his skin, he pulled Blaine closer, shushing his murmured ‘sorry’, and let Blaine hold him until they fell asleep. 


	3. The House (January, 2016)

“Come on, Blaine, do it already.” 

“Okay, hang on, let me just…” Blaine was juggling Kurt’s messenger bag, his own satchel, and a camera in his hands as Kurt pulled on the sleeve of his coat teasingly. “Here,” Blaine gave Kurt the two bags and lifted up the camera to take a picture of the house they stood outside of. 

Kurt paused in his sleeve pulling to watch the photo develop. 

It had been a long day of coordinating movers, labeling boxes, and trying to stave off their friends as they attempted to ‘help’, but the movers and friends were gone now, and Kurt and Blaine stood on the sidewalk across the street from their new home. 

Blaine had stumbled across the newly vacant brownstone by accident after taking a wrong turn on his way to the barber shop, and he’d called the listing agent immediately. It had seemed almost too good to be true, to find his dream home newly vacant on a quiet, tree lined street, and then to hear the agent say it was reasonably priced and came with a lease to buy option, Blaine had barely remembered his manners in his haste to hang up and call Kurt to tell him to start packing. 

Naturally, Kurt had reservations, such as the price, but Blaine had begged and pleaded and Kurt, knowing they could manage the extra, had relented. He wanted a real house just as much as Blaine, and the second he laid eyes on the building, he had fallen in love with it just as quickly as Blaine had. 

Now, four weeks later, they stood outside, Blaine clutching a photograph and Kurt clutching Blaine’s sleeve. They hadn’t been leasing their old apartment, and their landlady was thrilled to hear they’d found a house in a decent neighborhood, and even offered to help them find movers. Even though Blaine knew there was a lease to the home with his and Kurt’s names on it, iron-clad in black ink, in the front pocket of one of the messenger bags Kurt held, he felt nauseous with disbelief. 

“You ready, husband?” Kurt asked him quietly. 

Blaine nodded immediately, almost too eagerly, and Kurt laughed gently. 

“Are we taking turns carrying each other across the threshold?” Kurt inquired teasingly as he pulled Blaine across the narrow street and up to the stairs that led to their front door. 

“No,” Blaine scoffed. “You’re carrying me straight through the door, down the hall, and into the bedroom, hopefully.” 

Kurt laughed then, a full, joyous laugh, and Blaine couldn’t help but smile at him. He grabbed Kurt’s hand and pulled him up the stairs, only pausing to let Kurt clumsily turn his key in the lock. 

They stepped across the threshold at the same moment, hand in hand. 

The movers had been kind enough to set up the few items of furniture the two of them possessed, and had left the carefully labeled boxes in their corresponding rooms, so there wasn’t much work left to do. One or two more days of dusting and unpacking, and they would be completely moved in. Blaine thrilled at the thought and tightened his grip on Kurt’s hand. 

Together they walked through the house, quietly, almost reverently, neither speaking a word. The kitchen and breakfast nook held the most boxes between the two of them, being a combined space, and they stood in the doorway, Kurt mentally organizing the cabinets and Blaine staring at the early evening sun as it streamed through the large window at the end of the room. 

Kurt tugged gently on his hand, leading him down the hall, past the staircase and the hall bathroom, and into the large downstairs bedroom where their bedframe was set up in the middle of the room, with the mattress still leaning up against the wall by the closet door. They would have to move it themselves and put sheets on it before that night. 

Blaine smiled and said, “I guess I was a bit optimistic with my plans for the evening.” 

“Mmm,” was all Kurt said in response. He turned and left the room, still leading Blaine by the hand. Blaine followed as he was led up the stairs and down another hallway to the large bedroom he knew lay at the end. 

Kurt pushed open the door with his free hand, and Blaine’s breath caught in his chest. The piano stood in the middle of the large room, in front of the large windows that took up the entire street-facing wall. His bookshelves were lined up against the opposing wall, and five boxes, labeled MUSIC in Kurt’s clear, bold handwriting, sat in front of them, waiting to be unpacked and organized. Sunlight poured into the room, akin to the breakfast room downstairs, and the trees pressed up against the front of the building swayed as a breeze moved through them, diffusing the sunlight and casting playful shadows on the wood floor. 

“Kurt,” Blaine started, feeling overcome. 

“The one at the other end of the hall is my workroom,” Kurt told him, by way of explaining, “So this space is all yours.” 

Blaine released Kurt’s hand and stepped into the room. The wall opposite the bookshelf had things hanging on it already, and Blaine smiled as he saw that his favorite photo from their wedding day was among them. He had asked the wedding photographer to frame it and send it to him, much to Kurt’s chagrin. The photo had captured a slightly flushed Kurt in the middle of a laugh as Blaine grinned hugely at him and led him to the dance floor. In the background were the unfocused faces of Rachel, Burt, Carole, and Pamela, each and every one of them wide-eyed with joy and love. 

That moment stood out vividly in Blaine’s memory, and if he closed his eyes he could still feel the warmth of the room full of bodies, and he could hear Kurt’s loose, happy laughter as the band segued into an elaborate string arrangement of ‘Teenage Dream’. 

Next to that photograph hung a corkboard, and on that corkboard, two polaroid photos had been pinned up, in the order they had been taken. Blaine took this in slowly, smiling. 

Kurt stepped up behind Blaine and draped his arms over Blaine’s shoulders. “You like it? I had Rachel sneak in here and hang those up. She was thrilled to be helping with such a grand, romantic gesture, as she put it.” 

“I love it,” Blaine murmured, turning in Kurt’s embrace to kiss him. “It is romantic.” 

“I’m glad you think so,” Kurt smiled. “We do romantic really well, you and I.” 

“I love it,” Blaine repeated, kissing Kurt again. “Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Kurt whispered. “Now, I know we passed the box that said ‘sheets’ on the way here, and I don’t know about you, but I really, really want to make the bed.” 

Blaine laughed as Kurt turned and left the room, presumably to find the box of linens. Blaine looked down at the photo he still held in his hand, and smiled at the fuzzy, dreamy hues of the polaroid. He went to the corkboard and pulled out an extra thumbtack to pin the photo up.

From somewhere in the house Kurt shouted a triumphant, “Aha!” and Blaine smiled to himself as he turned to follow the sound of Kurt’s voice to their bedroom. 


	4. The Flat-Iron (April, 2016)

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Kurt called from the bathroom. “It’s your big day!”  
  
Blaine grunted in response and pulled Kurt’s pillow over his head to muffle the overly-exaggerated sounds of Kurt readying himself for the day. It was relatively peaceful for several blessed moments, and then the blankets were ripped off of him unceremoniously. 

“Go away,” Blaine threw the pillow in the general direction of where he hoped Kurt was standing, only to have it thrown back at him with such force the bed shook. 

“I have spent months planning this, Blaine,” Kurt reminded him levelly. “You’re going to love it, but you have to get out of bed first.” 

“Fine,” Blaine grumbled, and forced himself into a sitting position, eyes still firmly closed. 

Kurt laughed fondly, and said in a long-suffering voice, “We’re having your favorite for breakfast.”

“Omelettes?” Blaine turned his head towards Kurt’s voice, and smiled to himself as the bed dipped under Kurt’s weight. 

“Go brush your teeth or I won’t kiss you good morning,” Kurt said, suddenly very close to Blaine.

Blaine opened his eyes to find Kurt’s face level with his. Kurt smelled clean and minty, and his hair was styled for the day. He was wearing Blaine’s favorite jacket of his, soft blue with darker contrasting lapels, and jeans. Blaine wanted to kiss him so badly it ached. “You’d refuse a man a good morning kiss on his birthday?” 

“I’d refuse a man anything if I didn’t feel like he deserved it,” Kurt stated flatly. “Go.” 

“That’s harsh,” Blaine muttered, but he forced his sleep heavy limbs to move, and pushed himself off the bed. He padded into the bathroom in socked feet, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “I look as exhausted as I feel.”

“How did your rehearsal go, by the way?” Kurt asked, his voice slightly raised as he rummaged through the closet. 

“Long,” was the only explanation Blaine offered before he went through the motions of brushing his teeth. He washed his face, shaved, and worked some water through his hair for good measure. Today was not a gelling day. 

Blaine went back into the bedroom to see an outfit laid out on the bed. He raised his eyebrows at the freshly ironed button down and navy pants. “I thought I was turning twenty-two. Not...two.” 

“There’s a dress code,” Kurt explained vaguely. “There are bowtie alternatives.” 

“Alright, I’ll play along,” Blaine folded his arms over his chest and fixed Kurt with what he hoped was an even look. “On two conditions.”

Kurt, in turn, raised an eyebrow archly. “Two conditions? My, aren't we bossy?” 

“It’s my birthday. I get to be bossy,” Blaine said dismissively. “My first condition is that you never tell anyone you dressed me, and you never bring it up in an argument.” 

“That’s fair,” Kurt conceded. He came to stand next to Blaine at the side of the bed. “Your second condition wouldn’t happen to be a kiss, would it?” 

“It is, but just because it is the second condition does not mean it is any less important,” Blaine smiled smugly up at Kurt, and Kurt rolled his eyes. 

“Fine then,” Kurt said begrudgingly. “Seeing as you’ve strong-armed me into it. Does it have to be two kisses or can it be one long kiss?” 

“Is there a third option?”

“No kiss?” 

“Two long kisses.”

“You are quite the negotiator,” Kurt moved towards Blaine, pinning him between Kurt’s body and the edge of the bed. 

“You haven’t denied me my conditions, yet,” Blaine reminded him.

Kurt’s response to that was to lean down and kiss Blaine on his open mouth. He pulled away too soon, and Blaine felt the warmth from his hands and the press of his hips even after Kurt stepped away from him. 

“Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes,” Kurt instructed. “Breakfast will be ready.” 

Blaine put on selected outfit and was downstairs in eleven minutes. He took the cup of coffee Kurt immediately offered him, and sat down at the small table in the breakfast nook. 

“I needed those fifteen minutes, Mr. Overachiever,” Kurt teased from where he stood by the stove.

“I don’t mind,” Blaine leaned back in his chair and looked out the window to watch the activity on their street. “It gives me time to admire the view.” 

“Should I be offended you didn’t mean me?” Kurt came to set a plate down in front of Blaine, and went back to the kitchen. 

Blaine murmured his thanks and set to work on his breakfast. Between his approving noises and the sounds of Kurt preparing his own breakfast, there wasn't much talking, but it was a comfortable sort of silence that they were both well used to. 

When Kurt slid into the seat across from Blaine and set down his own plate he said, “What view is it you're referring to?”

“There's an elderly couple across the street from us,” Blaine explained as he laid his silverware down on his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “Every morning they sit there and drink tea.”

“And that's unusual how?” Kurt cut his eggs into small bites and chewed slowly. 

Blaine rolled his eyes fondly and replied, “Not unusual. I just think they're cute. Sometimes he kisses her on the cheek and she blushes and pulls away. They're in their eighties, probably been married for, gosh, decades, and she's still shy about that,” Blaine ran his hands through his hair and stood up to clear his plate. 

“If you're jealous, I would sit outside on the front step and kiss you over a steaming cup of earl grey, except I doubt you'd blush,” Kurt rose to clear his own plate and stopped to refill his coffee cup. “You would probably drag me inside and have your wicked way with me.” 

Blaine shot Kurt a sardonic look. “You're not wrong. And I'm not jealous.” 

“What word would you use, then?” 

After a moment’s pause Blaine said, “Auspicious.” 

Kurt eyed Blaine skeptically over the rim of his cup reached into his pocket for his phone. He unlocked it slowly, deliberately, and stared down at the screen for several moments. Blaine waited patiently. 

“Auspicious is not an emotion,” Kurt finally said. 

“It sums up how I feel about the elderly couple, though,” Blaine took Kurt’s coffee cup from him and set it in the sink with their plates.

“You feel the future success of the elderly couple is likely? I don’t think you used that word correctly.” 

“Kurt,” Blaine said warningly. 

“Alright, alright,” Kurt conceded. “You're envious of what they have and hope to attain it someday.”

“In summary, yes.” 

“Well, I think as long as we can adapt it to cups of coffee, we can arrange something similar for ourselves,” Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine’s waist and pulled him in. “Are you good with waiting sixty years, though?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Blaine rested his forehead on the hollow between Kurt’s collarbones and loosely gripped the lapels of Kurt’s blazer. They stood there for a long moment, with Blaine tucked into the curve of Kurt’s body. Kurt rested his chin on Blaine’s head, and Blaine wished it was possible to be physically closer than they already were with their bodies flush and his cheek resting on Kurt’s heart. 

At long last Blaine said, “I love this jacket.”

“Why? It’s old and ratty.”

“Exactly,” Blaine let go of the jacket and smoothed his hands down the front of Kurt’s chest. “You’ve had it for so long you don’t care if I grab your lapels.” 

“It’s bad for the shape of them, and you know it,” Kurt’s chin was digging painfully into the top of Blaine’s head, but Kurt was warm and soft and  _ there _ , so Blaine didn’t comment.

“Which is why this jacket is my favorite. It’s so old and well loved you don’t care if I scrunch up your lapels.”

“Scrunch?” Kurt pulled back and frowned at Blaine, but there was no hiding the mirth in his eyes.

Blaine shrugged tolerantly. “It’s a word. Get your dictionary app back out and check.” 

Kurt opened his mouth to shoot back what would have undoubtedly been a scathing retort, but then there was a knock on the door. Immediately, a slow smile spread over Kurt’s face, and he moved away from Blaine. 

“Now, who could that be?” he wondered aloud as he headed into the front hall and opened the door. 

Blaine followed him curiously, and was surprised to see an elderly man dressed in simple, professional looking attire, and holding what appeared to be a small whip.

“Kurt…” Blaine backed away hesitantly. “I don’t know if I’m excited about this.” 

Kurt turned away from the man immediately, with a look of shock on his face. He followed Blaine’s eyes to the whip in the man’s hand, and blanched.

“Blaine, it’s not what you think,” he hastened to explain. 

The man laughed, one quick, loud laugh, before Kurt fixed a hard look on him, and he quieted. Blaine could see him biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Sorry about this,” the man said, waving the whip in the air. “Usually I leave it on the carriage.” 

It took a moment for that to hit Blaine, shocked as he was by his initial impression of the man. “The carriage?” 

Kurt nodded slowly. His smile was back, but he seemed apprehensive.

“Kurt, you didn’t.” 

“I did,” he murmured. 

“Around Central Park?” 

“And then some,” Kurt whispered, almost withering under Blaine’s questions, and he recoiled in shock when Blaine shouted with joy and threw himself into Kurt’s arms. 

“Thank you,” Blaine whispered fervently into Kurt’s ear. “Thank you so much.” 

“You’re welcome, Blaine,” Kurt whispered back. He kissed Blaine gently on the cheek as he pulled away from Blaine to address the driver. “Told you he’d love it.” 

“You did, indeed,” the man seemed resigned to this, but he winked good-naturedly at Blaine. “Shall we?” 

Blaine grabbed Kurt’s hand and pulled him out their front door, only putting a hold on his excitement when Kurt insisted they lock the door before they went anywhere. Waiting at the curb in front of their home was a white carriage, pulled by a dappled black horse. It was the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. Or at least, the most beautiful thing he had seen this month. So far.

He stood there for a long moment, just admiring it,  grinning from ear to ear, his body practically humming with enthusiasm. The driver seemed dryly amused at Blaine’s exuberance, and Kurt was tolerantly fond. 

“This is already the best birthday ever,” Blaine declared as he finally climbed up into the carriage. He offered his hand down to Kurt, who swung himself up with the strong, subtle grace Blaine had come to know so well, and settled himself on the seat next to Blaine. 

“You have more surprises to get through, so hopefully you don’t explode with the sheer joy you’re going to experience today,” Kurt nodded at the driver, and the carriage took off at a sedate pace down their street. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Blaine said decidedly as he waved at their postman. “I’m too young to have a heart attack.” 

 

 

“I think I’m going to have a heart attack,” Blaine said.

“Well, I did warn you,” was Kurt’s response. “This is your second surprise of three.” 

They were standing outside the New Amsterdam, and Blaine was craning his neck up at what had to be a painful angle to stare at the giant Aladdin sign that loomed above them.

“This is a joke, right?” Blaine continued to stand, right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the sign as if he was holding it up there by sheer force of will.   
  
“This is not a joke,” Kurt assured him. “It’s your mother’s contribution to the surprise.” 

“I’ll have to call her,” Blaine said. 

“No you won’t,” Kurt said offhandedly.

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, confusion apparent in his face. “Why wouldn’t I call my mother on my birthday and thank her for what had to be a very expensive present?”

“To be fair, she bought during previews, so they weren’t that hard to get, but I see your point,” Kurt reached out to pull Blaine out of the way as a group of loudly chattering people went past them. “You can call your mother and thank her, I won’t stop you, but it might be nicer if you tell her in person.” 

Blaine didn’t know what to say. 

“I wish we hadn’t already taken our polaroid for the day, because the look on your face right now is one I want to remember forever,” Kurt said, “Screw the Flat-Iron building.”

“Kurt,” Blaine breathed, barely a word, more of an exhale, as tears formed in his eyes. “My mom is here?” 

“She’s meeting us here at six for the show, yes,” Kurt clarified. “But she could be here sooner if you like. She’s at her hotel right now.” 

“Yeah,” Blaine said immediately. He reached up and brushed away the tears that threatened to fall. “Yeah, yes, please, I want to see her.” 

“Okay…” Kurt said slowly. He seemed to be mulling something over in his mind, and he finally said, “Do you want the rest of the surprise, then?”

“There’s more?” Blaine’s voice broke on the last syllable, and he looked a little overwhelmed. 

“Honey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Kurt began, but Blaine shook his head vehemently, and the apology died in Kurt’s throat. 

“What’s the rest?” 

“My dad is here.” 

Blaine inhaled sharply, raggedly, and choked on a sob. “For me? He’s here for me?” 

“Yes, Blaine,” Kurt said gently. 

Blaine stepped back for a moment and took several deep breaths. He was torn between laughing and crying, and unhindered tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed,” he admitted. 

“You look it,” Kurt kept his tone level and his body language open. He’d never seen Blaine like this, and it was strange to see Blaine struggling to control his emotions. “Do you want to see them?”

“Yes, always, yes,” Blaine blurted. “As soon as possible. I want to see everyone. Is Carole here?”

“Yes,” Kurt was already sending Pamela the address of a rendezvous point. He occupied himself with his phone for longer than he needed to while he waited for Blaine to compose himself. 

It was a while before Blaine had gotten his breathing under control, but when he seemed more his usual self, Kurt reached for him. Blaine slid his hand into Kurt’s almost automatically, and smiled wanly. 

“Better?” Kurt asked. 

Blaine nodded. “Much better.”

“Any idea what that was?”

“I’m happy,” Blaine said simply.  
  
Kurt paused for a moment, but finally he seemed to take that at face value, and he said, “Okay. We’re meeting everyone for lunch in about twenty minutes. It’s not far from here.” 

“We can walk,” Blaine offered. He squeezed Kurt’s hand a little tighter at the dubious look on Kurt’s face, and Kurt acquiesced with a shrug. 

“You know I never pass up an opportunity to walk along Broadway.”

“That’s just because you know you’re going to own it someday,” Blaine murmured. 

“I hadn’t considered that,” Kurt swung their hands between them as they walked. “If performing doesn’t work out for me, I could go into real estate.” 

“Don’t be ornery,” Blaine bumped Kurt’s shoulder with his own, earning a quick smile and a faint blush on Kurt’s part. They walked quietly for a while, with the noise of the street being enough to discourage any conversation, but Blaine was itching to have one question answered, and he finally couldn’t leave it unasked any longer.

“How did you get them to agree to come today?”  
  
Kurt looked a little surprised at the question, but he recovered quickly. “They offered.” 

“They…” Blaine stopped dead in his tracks, jerking Kurt to an abrupt stop. He ignored the annoyed look Kurt shot him, and said, “They offered?”

“Why is that so shocking to you?” 

Blaine floundered for a moment. “I don’t know.” 

“Your mom got enough tickets for you to take yourself and four friends,” Kurt explained. “She meant for them to be your Christmas present, but you were in New York, and it got sidelined.” 

Blaine nodded in understanding, remembering their past Christmas well. His and Kurt’s first together, and only Kurt’s second without Burt. It had been a strange holiday. Blaine’s mother had called him halfway through dinner to say she had filed for divorce and his father had moved to Cincinnati. Blaine had been so shocked he’d dropped his phone in the gravy boat. 

“Pam called me a couple months ago and said she remembered she had them,” Kurt shifted uncomfortably, but continued. “She wanted to give them to you right then. It was only a couple days after you started your medication, and you weren't really yourself,” Kurt tripped delicately over his words, but Blaine didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t think it was the right time. Maybe it would have cheered you up, but it also wouldn’t have been the same. I suggested saving them for a birthday present was a better idea, since she got them for the day of your birthday. She called maybe a week later and asked if it was alright if she came to see it with us. It kind of snowballed from there. My dad asked me in November if he and Carole could come for your birthday.” 

Blaine was quiet for a moment. “Wow.” 

“Wow?” Kurt echoed. 

“Yeah,” Blaine didn’t seem capable of expressing it any better at the moment, so Kurt bit back his questions and started them walking towards the restaurant again. 

They walked the remainder of the way in silence, and when they came to stop in front of the unassuming bistro Kurt had selected, Blaine stopped, and turned to face Kurt. He put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders and waited until he had Kurt’s undivided attention. 

“Thank you,” he said firmly.

All Kurt could do was nod. 

Blaine looked ready to say something else, but then he caught a glimpse of something over Kurt’s shoulder, and a smile dawned on his face. He released Kurt and walked swiftly to meet his mother halfway, catching her up in his arms and hugging her so tightly she slapped him lightly on the shoulder in an effort to make him release her. Pamela responded warmly to Blaine’s wonderment at her presence, and Blaine couldn’t help the easy, light feeling that welled up inside him. 

It wasn’t long before Burt and Carole joined them, both with hugs for everyone, and Blaine felt like sunshine was pouring out of him as he let Burt pull him in for a hug. He closed his eyes and attempted to memorize the alien smoothness of Burt’s dress shirt as it brushed against Blaine’s cheek, and he complimented Carole on the new perfume she was wearing, much to her delight. 

He remembered his earlier breakdown with a hint of shame, and chastised himself for doubting that these people loved him and would go out of their way to be with him on his birthday. Blaine’s hand found Kurt’s in all the commotion, and he gripped it tightly, hopefully communicating his elation through his grip. When Kurt squeezed back and rubbed his thumb over the ridge of Blaine’s knuckles, he was content in knowing that Kurt had understood him. 

Later in their lunch, when Carole and Kurt had gone to the restroom, and Burt to hold Carole’s purse, Pamela reached over the table and rested her hand on top of Blaine’s. He paused and set down the styrofoam box into which he was putting Kurt’s leftovers. 

“Blaine,” Pamela said quietly. “I have something to tell you.”  
  
_ Please don’t say you’re getting back together with dad, _ Blaine prayed silently, but he said, “I’m listening.” 

“When you were younger, I was a bit negligent,” Pamela looked up at him, her expression guilty, but apologetic. “I wasn’t always there for you. Especially after,” she cleared her throat and tightened her grip on Blaine’s hand. “After you came out.”

“I remember,” Blaine said evenly. He was doing his best to stop himself from saying  _ it’s alright, I didn’t mind, it didn’t bother me, I know it was hard for you, _ because it wasn’t alright, and it had hurt him. It had taken him a long time to allow himself to blame his mother, but he had worked himself full circle and loved her more than he ever had. He hadn’t expected her to apologize, and now that she was doing just that, he didn’t know what to say. 

“I’ve been seeing someone,” Pamela said hesitantly. 

Blaine’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

“A therapist,” Pamela corrected.

Blaine’s eyebrows rose steadily higher.

“Oh, stop that,” Pamela reached up and smacked him on the arm, diffusing the tension in the air and sending them both laughing. “I am not sleeping with my therapist.”  
  
“Good to know,” Blaine reached for her hand again, this time holding it in both of his hands. He entreated her to continue with a nod, and she took a moment to compose herself. 

“She told me that I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been,” Pamela smiled sheepishly. “She also said I owed you an apology.” 

“Are you apologizing to me because your therapist told you to, or because it’s something you need to do as my mother?” 

Pamela looked hurt at the question, and Blaine felt almost sick with guilt, but he gritted his teeth and imagined Joe in his head, telling him that it needed to be done and it had to hurt before it could heal. 

“I’m apologizing to you because I’m your mother, and I should have loved you unconditionally, and not let my own problems get in the way of that,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t do as much as I could have to fix things with your father, and I let you feel like you were alone when you needed me most. I’m very sorry for that, Blaine.” 

Blaine nodded. “I forgive you, mom.” 

Pamela looked at him quizzically. 

“What?” he laughed. “Is that wrong? Should I not have forgiven you?” 

“Your therapist is doing good things for you,” she observed. “A year ago you would have said ‘That’s okay, mom, I love you,’ and done whatever you could to make me feel better.” 

A smile pulled at the corner of Blaine’s mouth and he said, “It wasn’t okay. But I forgive you.” 

Pamela nodded, looking relieved. 

“And mom?” 

“Yes?” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, Blaine,” Pamela’s free hand came up to cup Blaine’s cheek, and he smiled at her. 

“Psst!” 

Blaine looked up, shocked. Kurt was standing behind his chair, hiding behind his hands. 

“Yes, Kurt?” Blaine asked, fondly amused. 

“Can we come back to the table yet?” Kurt stage-whispered. “The vending machine in the bathroom has condoms, but you’re the only one who carries loose change, and I -”

“Oh my God, Kurt, shut up and sit down,” Blaine’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the combined laughter of his mother and Carole eased his humiliation. Burt seemed to have selectively ignored the entire exchange, and Blaine was silently grateful for that. 

Kurt settled himself back into the seat next to Blaine and after waiting for everyone to take their own seats said, “So! What’s everyone wearing tonight?”

 

 

The taxi ride home from the show was quiet. 

Blaine was looking out the window, watching the city move past in its fashion, which was something that he never tired of. He and Kurt were holding hands, but kept a seat’s distance between them as Kurt looked out his own window. Blaine knew he was mentally reconstructing the entire show from start to finish, every light cue, every key change, every subtle nuance in the costuming, and Blaine felt warm and content. 

The car rolled to a stop in front of their house, and Kurt paid the driver with a detached efficiency. He pulled Blaine out of the car behind him, and didn’t let go of his hand even as he unlocked the door, went into the house, locked the door, and turned on the hallway light. 

Blaine was pressed between the front door and Kurt’s body within seconds. Neither of them said anything. Kurt was tense, Blaine could feel it in the way Kurt’s entire body was pressed against his, but all of Kurt’s own body weight was held in the rigidity of his muscles.   
  
“Come on, Kurt,” Blaine whispered, seeking out Kurt’s eyes in the dim of the hall light. 

“What?” Kurt inquired softly, his hands clenching into fists where they rested on the door on either side of Blaine’s head. 

“Relax,” Blaine leaned forward minutely to mouth along the side of Kurt’s jaw. “I love you.” 

“Sorry,” Kurt flattened his hands, and relaxed into Blaine. 

Blaine hummed a response and kissed Kurt on the neck. He brought his hands up underneath Kurt’s jacket to grab handfuls of his dress shirt and pull it free from his pants. Kurt made a sound in the back of his throat, almost plaintively, and Blaine stopped. 

“Okay,” Blaine whispered. “Okay, you drive.” 

“I love you,” Kurt said fiercely. “I love you so much.” 

“I know, Kurt.”

“Do you?” 

Blaine was caught off guard by the question. Kurt wasn’t angry, or hurt. He seemed honestly inquisitive, even concerned, and Blaine couldn’t stop himself from frowning. 

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I worry sometimes that you don’t know,” Kurt murmured. “I worry I don’t show you often enough.”  
  
“Kurt,” Blaine released the tension in his body, making himself completely pliant under Kurt’s body. He couldn’t think of any other way to show Kurt just how much trust Blaine placed in him, and judging by the way Kurt’s eyes widened, Blaine guessed it had worked. He exhaled slowly, rapturously as Kurt’s weight bore down on him, pressing him into the door. They stood there for a moment, Kurt breathing heavily in stark contrast to the complete bliss that showed on Blaine’s features.

“Is that what’s got you so worked up?” Blaine asked gently. 

There was no response from Kurt.

“You do show me,” Blaine said, finally. “You do. You put my entire family on a plane and brought them here. We spent the morning riding around New York in a horse and carriage. We went to a show I never thought I’d get to see, and it was the second greatest thing I’ve ever seen onstage, coming in very close behind your first NYADA audition. This has been one of the best days of my life, Kurt.” 

“Okay,” Kurt whispered tearfully, with a small laugh. “God, Blaine, I love you.”

“I know,” Blaine murmured reassuringly. “I know you do. I love you, too.”  
  
“I want you,” Kurt said in a low voice.

Blaine waited for the inevitable follow up. 

“Bed?” Kurt inquired.   
  
“Fuck, I thought you’d never ask,” Blaine shifted under Kurt’s body, and the mood shifted with him. They untied their shoes, leaving them haphazardly in the hall, and pulled off their own jackets as they made their way down the darkened hall to their bedroom. 

Blaine turned on a bedside lamp as Kurt pulled aside the duvet and retrieved the lube and condoms from his nightstand drawer. They stood there for a moment, on opposite sides of the bed, before Kurt noticed the apparent humor in the situation and said, “Blaine.”

“Yes, Kurt?” 

“We’re an old married couple from a sitcom.” 

“Hey, now,” Blaine chided, but he was smiling. “We don’t sleep in separate twin beds.” 

“I pulled down the bedspread and you turned on a light,” Kurt gestured to the chair behind him. “We hung our jackets up on the back of a chair.”

“Would you rather I ripped off my five hundred dollar suit in a frenzy?” Blaine mused. “I can put it back on and do it again.” 

“Oh, be quiet and get on the bed,” Kurt ordered, half jokingly. 

Blaine didn’t respond. He complied. 

Kurt exhaled slowly, his eyes wide. He dropped the lube and condoms onto the nightstand and climbed onto the bed. They knelt in the center of their bed, chest to chest, and Blaine whispered challengingly, “Bet you never saw anything like that in a sitcom.” 

“No,” Kurt admitted. “But that’s going to be a true statement for the next hour and a half.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Me either. Take your pants off.”

“My, aren’t we bossy?” 

“You haven’t seen anything, yet.”


	5. The Street (April, 2016)

“Father’s Day is coming up,” Blaine said.

Joe raised an eyebrow at him and made a note on her clipboard before replying, “That’s two months away, but yes. And?”

“And Kurt wants to go home and be with his dad.”

“...And?”

“And I don’t want to go with him.”

“Why not?”

“I haven't been back to Ohio since my parents got divorced,” Blaine absently worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to find words that would appropriately describe his feelings. “If I go see my mom, she'll tell him I'm in the state. If I don't go see my mom, she'll find out I visited and didn't come see her.”

“I see,” Joe said.

“That's it? That's your only comment?”

“Well, Blaine, I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is.”

“I don't want to talk about my dad,” Blaine said automatically.

“I think you do,” Joe retorted. “You brought it up, Blaine. You haven’t really talked about your father in all the time we’ve been seeing each other.”

“Have you ever heard the song about the ballet from A Chorus Line?” Blaine asked, not really changing the subject, but not directly addressing it, either.

Joe raised an eyebrow, but she caught on. “Your father was unfaithful?”

“My father was horrible,” Blaine said flatly. “I tried for years to think myself out of that opinion, but it's a waste of time.”

“Why do you feel this way about him?” Joe queried. “You seem resentful, almost hateful. Why?”

“When I was thirteen, I came out. When I was fourteen, I was assaulted, and sent to a private school. The summer after I turned fifteen, before my sophomore year, my dad and I rebuilt a car in our garage,” Blaine rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands as he continued, “Which he told me later he only did it because he thought if he bonded with me over what he considered to be masculine activities, it might make me straight. He blamed himself. He said if he’d been closer to me, maybe I wouldn't be gay. He told me he thought he had failed as a parent. Because I was gay.”

Joe was silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Blaine.”

“I hated him,” Blaine confessed quietly. “For a long time. I hated how he could look me in the eye and tell me he considered me a sign of his failure. I've known I was gay since I was ten. When I was ten my dad and I played catch, and we watched the news, and he didn't ground me when he found one of Cooper’s Sports Illustrated under my bed. We were fine. I liked my dad. I loved him. I thought he loved me. Maybe he always did, I don't know. But he really didn't like me.”

“You hated him?”

Blaine looked up at Joe, surprise evident on his face. “Yes? That's what I said.”

“Past tense,” Joe pointed out.

Blaine’s eyes widened and his lips parted as surprise came over him. He hadn’t consciously put it into past tense, but he could feel that he no longer carried a burning inside him.

“It was a waste of time to hate him,” Blaine said, finally. “I couldn't change him any more than he could change me. Sometimes I wished I had never come out, because then I would have my dad, and I wouldn't have a four inch scar on my ribs, and I wouldn't have to be twenty-two and wake up with nightmares about things that happened to me eight years ago. I hated my dad for making me feel that way. I was comfortable with myself. I loved myself, I loved being gay, and I never had any problems with it, until I told my dad.”

“Your mother received it well?”

“I told her separately. I came out to Cooper first, and then my mom,” Blaine felt a familiar nausea build inside of him as he recounted, but he forced himself to speak past the tremor in his voice. “Cooper found out, really, and I told my mom one day when she picked me up from school. No pretense or anything. I just said, ‘Mom, I'm gay’,” Blaine’s voice caught in his throat and he smiled humorlessly. “She said, ‘Alright, sweetie. But please don't tell your father’, and not even a week later I was crying in my dad’s office and he was asking me if I was sure, if I was really sure, because I was so young, maybe I just hadn't met the right girl.”

Joe was hastily writing on her notepad, her brow furrowed. She looked almost angry, and Blaine paused to stare at her inquiringly as she scribbled.

“I bet you've heard that a million times,” he said, finally.

“What? That dads can be assholes?” Joe looked up from her notes and gave Blaine a small smile.

“No, the thing about the right girl.”

Joe narrowed her eyes minutely. “Did your father try to make you like girls?”

“He used to introduce me to the daughters of his associates,” Blaine said with a shrug. “Or he'd point out girls my age in the mall, which really, I just thought was creepy, but it didn't help. I just kind of humored him.”

“What made him stop?”

“He met Kurt.”

“Your father likes Kurt?”

Blaine made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “No. He hates Kurt. We weren’t even dating when my dad met him, Kurt had just come over to do homework, or something like that. My dad was cold and rude and talked as if Kurt wasn't even in the room. It was humiliating, for me and Kurt.”

“Did you say something?”

“In a way,” Blaine smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. “I yelled at him. I had been so angry for so long, and I hated him so much, and he went and hurt Kurt for no good reason at all, which was just the last straw. So I told him that I was never going to date Anne whose father has stock in his sister company, and I was never going to like cars, and I was never going to stop liking boys, and he could hate me all he wanted for that, but I didn't hate myself and he needed to deal with that. My mom cried, and I was grounded for a week, but the next time Kurt came over, my dad was as nice as could be.”

Joe shifted in her seat and set aside her clipboard. She focused an inquisitive gaze on Blaine and asked, “Did things improve after that?”

“He left me alone,” Blaine said, knowing this wasn’t a positive thing, even if sixteen year old him had been thrilled at the prospect.

“Too alone?”

Blaine inhaled slowly, tremulously, and after a moment said, “That was when he started hating me.”

“Did he ever say he hated you?”

“He didn't have to,” Blaine muttered. “We never spoke. Never. My mother did everything she could to keep us apart.”

Joe had heard the story of Blaine’s birthday, and she didn’t comment on Blaine’s mother. Instead she said, “Did you ever doubt he hated you?”

“There was one time, there was a shooting scare at our school,” Blaine recoiled at the memory, but shook himself and continued. “I came home that day and I could barely speak I was so scared, so my mother held me for what must have been hours. I was too shocked to even cry. At some point my dad came in, and he saw us huddled on the living room floor, and he knelt down and he held us both. And then I cried.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Blaine echoed.

“Why did you cry?”

“Because I was scared, mostly,” Blaine mulled it over in his mind, trying to remember how it had felt when the tightness in his chest had unspooled and he’d finally been able to cry. “But also because he hadn't touched me in so long, and some dark part of me had been thinking my dad wouldn't care if I hadn't come home from school, and for him to hold me and admit that he cared about my well being in his own backwards way was too much for me at that time.”

“You thought he wouldn't care if you died?” Joe reached for her clipboard again. She was doing a very poor job of hiding the shock on her face, and Blaine wondered what her notes said. He wondered what this was telling her about him, what all of this explained to her. He wanted to tell her that he had spent most of his life wondering if he would have been different if has father had been different. Blaine desperately wanted to know how much of himself he owed to his father, but more than anything, he wanted to know what it was in him that he had gotten from his father that was good.

His tendency to be clingy and need constant validation had come from his father. His eyes, his hair, half of his blood, and coincidentally, his heritage were his father’s. His difficulty talking about his feelings, his reluctance to accept help from other people, and his scads of insecurities all came from his father. His workaholic tendencies came from an innate desire to please, to overachieve, to even just be _enough_ , and he wasn’t sure if that counted as something good. Surely he must have gotten something from his father that he could use.

“Blaine?” Joe’s voice was gentle, searching, and she waited for him to refocus on her before she said, “Do I need to ask a different question?”

“No,” Blaine cleared his throat. “I just got off track. Um, after Sadie Hawkins my dad came to see me in the hospital, and he told me if I had gone with a girl that it wouldn't have happened, and maybe I should consider going back in the closet at my new school,” Blaine’s tone was acrid. “I was so shocked and hurt, and the nurse asked him to leave because he made me cry.”

“What do you think might have been different if your father had been closer to you?”

Blaine stopped and thought about this, now. He was hoping Joe would have been able to tell him, but that would’ve been too easy. Easy was on the other side of Joe’s closed office door with the politely aloof secretary and the detached behavior of the other patients who didn’t know that Blaine still had nightmares, still hated his body sometimes, still struggled to accept it when his husband told him he loved him, simply because he couldn’t believe that the words were really meant for him.

He could think of dozens of things his father had given him, his stubborn behavior, his perfectionism, and his first piano. Blaine sat up a little straighter at the memory. He remembered when his father had taught him to tie a windsor knot, and when Blaine had shown a preference for bowties, his father had shown him how to tie those, too. Blaine had steadily worked his way through six piano teachers during his life, becoming too advanced for each one in turn, and even after Blaine had come out, even after the cold had settled into his father, his private tutoring in music had continued.

Blaine knew this didn’t excuse the way his father had treated him, but he felt a little bit better as the positive things came back to him, slightly sullied by the bitter memories that followed them, but still there just the same.

“I might have liked myself a little bit more,” Blaine said thoughtfully. “I was always okay with being gay, but my dad’s opinion always meant a lot to me, probably more than it should, and losing his approval really shook me. I probably would not have been such a show off in high school.”

“Do you want kids, Blaine?” Joe asked gently.

Blaine looked over at her, surprised by the change of subject. He couldn’t put a finger on Joe’s reason for bringing it up, but he answered, “Yes. I do. Very badly.”

“Are you afraid you might not be a good father because of your father?

The atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed delicate and fraught, and Blaine was afraid to exhale too sharply and bring the ceiling crashing down on them. He lay back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan as he waited for words to come to him.

After a moment, Joe asked, “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Whatever we’re lucky enough to have,” Blaine rushed, grateful for the reprieve.

“What do you want most for them?”

“I want them to be successful,” he said. “I want them to have all the tools they need to be independent and capable.”

“You want them to be happy?”

“They will be,” Blaine replied fiercely. “They will be happy. They will be loved and happy and probably a little bit spoiled, and if they aren't happy, Kurt and I will get them the help they need to become happy.”

“It sounds like you've discussed this with Kurt,” Joe commented.

“Only a million times,” Blaine rolled his eyes and smiled at the ceiling. “Kurt wants kids as badly as I do. We’ve discussed everything. Nursery color, middle names, surrogates, potential therapists, what they’ll call their grandparents, who gets to pick out the bulk of their wardrobe, all that stuff.”

“You think Kurt will be a good dad?”

“Oh, he’ll be the best dad,” Blaine was grinning now, caught up in his favorite daydream. “He’ll be the one to teach them manners, and sitting up straight, and how to do their own hair, and I’ll be the one to teach them how to play the piano and how to waltz and how to make popcorn in a pan on the stove.”

“When are you two thinking of having a child?”

“Not for a while, unfortunately. First I have to graduate, and Kurt has to establish himself. We want to be able to provide for a child, not just barely manage the upkeep of one, and since I'm a full time student with only enough income to pay our rent, it just wouldn't be smart right now,” Blaine pulled himself into a sitting position and smiled over at Joe. “But it'll be sooner than later, I think. Before we’re thirty.”

“Blaine,” Joe said seriously.

Blaine hummed in response, still smiling, but he met Joe’s eyes.

“I think you will be an excellent father,” she said firmly.

Tears sprang to Blaine’s eyes, and he smiled tightly. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“I mean it,” she said. “I think you will do an amazing job, and any child would be lucky to have you as a parent.”

Blaine nodded, unable to force any words past the lump of tears in his throat.

“I have to do some therapist talk now,” Joe informed him. “And you won't like what I'm going to say, but I learned a lot about you today, Blaine, and this needs to be said.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”

“You define yourself by the way others see you,” Joe stated. It wasn't a question, or a querying statement, it was a fact, and she said it firmly and immovably. “You defined yourself as a child by the way Cooper saw you, as a teenager by the way your father saw you, or rather, refused to see you, and as a young adult, it was your teachers, your peers, and Kurt.”

Blaine didn't say anything. Joe took this as a sign to continue, as much as she hated the anguished expression on Blaine’s face.

“You have to learn how to see yourself for what you are, without trying to look through anyone else’s eyes but your own. Your teachers and peers and Kurt love you, Blaine, and you can't live your life trying to figure out what it is they want to see you do,” Joe said firmly, but gently. “That just hurts you. It wears you out. You would be fine on your own. You would be more than fine. You can do anything, be anything, say anything, all by yourself. It's nice to have people to go through life with you, but you got married so young, you didn't really have those years where most college students kick around and get into trouble and find their backbone in dirty bars and lecture halls and overcrowded apartments.”

Blaine laughed and nodded. “I’m thankful for that, though.”

Joe smiled, accepting this, but she forged ahead. “What you have is a support system. You need to stop thinking of your support system as your foundation, and instead think of it as a newly renovated kitchen, or a bay window, or a walk in closet.”

“Someone’s been watching a little too much HGTV,” Blaine commented wryly, but Joe shushed him.

“Your support system doesn't define you, it just helps you not be lonely while you define yourself,” Joe explained carefully. “Everybody needs one, and life is really damn hard without one, but the measure of a man is not his father’s opinion of him. I just think you need to know. You need to believe that you are enough. You’re enough without anyone else. The fact that you said your dad’s opinion meant more to you than it should have tells me you're already sort of aware, and that's good.”

“Kurt and I had a fight about this once,” Blaine said. “He told me I was needy, and I told him he was distant, and we don't go to bed angry, that’s one of our rules, so we had to loudly discuss it for hours before we finally realized we had to work on balancing ourselves better. I do need him. I know who I would be without him, I'm not dependent on him, but he makes me better. I'm whole when I'm with him. We do that for each other. I make him warm, and he makes me calm.”

“So you two have talked about your separation anxiety?”

“We yelled about it first,” Blaine admitted with a laugh. “But yes, we talked about it. He went home for Thanksgiving recently, and I thought I was going to feel lonely for the rest of my life, but after about a day, I called him and told him, very enthusiastically, I might add, that I hardly missed him at all. Which he found hysterical. He missed me more than I missed him, that time around.”

“That’s good, Blaine,” Joe said warmly. She seemed genuinely pleased by this, and Blaine couldn’t help reveling in the weight of her approval as it settled over him.

For the first time in several weeks, they ended their session on a high note, and Blaine left feeling light and open. He carried the confidence of knowing he had accomplished something, and he called a cheery goodbye to the receptionist as he pulled out his phone.

Kurt answered promptly, as he always did, and Blaine smiled hugely as Kurt breathed out a slightly harried, “Hello.”

“Hey, husband,” Blaine said cheerily.

“Someone had a good session,” Kurt observed with a smile in his voice.

“I talked about my dad,” Blaine said nonchalantly as he hailed a cab with his free hand.

“I see,” Kurt’s tone was laced with confusion, but he kept his voice light. “If you’re smiling it must mean you made a breakthrough in the dad department.”

Blaine heard the weight Kurt put into the term, and he acknowledged it for what it was. It was a well established fact between them, that they didn’t talk about Blaine’s dad. He wasn’t mentioned any more often than could be helped, and it was the lowest of blows to bring him into an argument. Kurt had learned that lesson the hard way after Blaine had spent a night on their sofa, barely able to handle the foreign feeling that was being _angry_ with Kurt. Kurt was treading lightly, not pushing, not asking, merely taking what was offered, and Blaine knew that if it was possible, his smile would have grown even bigger.

“Yeah,” he said simply, climbing into his cab. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Kurt replied easily, not automatically, but with a practiced warmth. “I took a polaroid for you today. I almost died in the process, but it’s very artistic.”

“I appreciate the gesture. See you in a few,” at Kurt’s mumbled reply, Blaine hung up the phone still smiling, and when he caught the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror, he shook his head and laughed, almost self-consciously, but nothing shook the spring from his step.

The ride home seemed longer than usual, but it always did when Blaine was in a hurry. He fumbled his key in the lock of the front door, jumping back in surprise when Kurt opened the door for him. Blaine fell into Kurt’s arms immediately, kissing him squarely on the mouth. Kurt made a small surprised sound, but kissed him back just as enthusiastically.

“Well,” Kurt exhaled when Blaine pulled back. “What was that for?”  
  
“I just love you, that’s all,” Blaine tossed his keys onto the hall table and toed off his shoes. “Let’s go sit down.”

“I made coffee a few minutes ago,” Kurt offered, but Blaine shook his head. Taking Kurt’s hand, he led him into their breakfast nook, and sat him down at the table.

“First of all, thank you for not asking me to tell you,” Blaine said.

Kurt nodded. “I know your dad is hard for you.”

“I didn’t mean to make him into forbidden territory,” Blaine admitted sheepishly. “Except that I did. I didn’t talk about him, and whenever you did, I got upset. Whenever my mom talked about him, I would react badly to her, too, which she didn’t deserve.”

“Nobody blames you for that, honey,” Kurt murmured gently.

“I know,” Blaine assured him. “I don’t blame me, either. I needed that distance from him.”

“May I ask a question?” Kurt asked, raising his hand slightly. “You have full right to veto.”

“Of course.”

“Did this get talked about because I asked you about Father’s Day?”

Blaine was momentarily taken aback. “Yes.”

With a nod, Kurt leaned back in his chair, effectively handing the conversation over to Blaine.

“I don’t hate my dad,” Blaine blurted with barely restrained enthusiasm.

“I think we skipped over some important details,” Kurt teased. “But...that’s great?”

“It is,” Blaine clarified. “At least, I think it is. I thought for so long I would always resent him, but today I just...let it go. It was easy. Way easier than I thought it would be. I think I’m going to call my mom later and tell her. I never thought I’d move past him. Obviously it’s still going to take some time, and I’m not ready to ever bring him up ever again after today, but still.”

Kurt smiled at that, and said, “That’s fine with me, because I don’t know if I’ll ever like your dad. For you, I would tolerate him at best.”

“That’s all I could ask of you, Kurt,” Blaine sat up in his chair and leaned forward to press a firm kiss to Kurt’s chin.

“So does this mean you’ll come to Ohio for Father’s Day? My dad really wants to see you,” Kurt ran his finger along the grain of the breakfast table. “I also think he’d probably be a little bit thrilled if you came down for this specific holiday.”

Blaine took a moment to think about what Kurt had just said. It was true that Burt had always been a good friend to Blaine, even after the break-up in his senior year. He’d watched many a baseball game at Burt’s house, neither of them talking about Kurt, or the elephant in the room, or the way Blaine would shrink away from the throw blanket that had always been Kurt’s. Burt had smiled tightly, sadly, and relegated the blanket to a closet before he’d wrapped an arm firmly around Blaine’s neck as Blaine cried onto Burt’s shoulder. Blaine had never applied another word to Burt. It had always been _friend_ . Always _Kurt’s dad,_ and sometimes, _father-in-law_ . He was no longer _sir_ , no longer _Mr. Hummel_ , but he had never considered Burt a father. He hadn’t thought he’d be allowed to.

“Blaine? What’s wrong?”

The worry in Kurt’s tone snapped Blaine to attention. He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, but a tear rolled down his cheek, and he blinked, licking away the salty taste of them and trying to find the words to say he was happy, it was okay, they were good tears.

“I didn’t realize he thought of me like that,” Blaine finally managed to say.

“Blaine,” Kurt murmured. “You’re his son.”

“In-law,” Blaine amended, still in awe of the fact.  
  
“No,” Kurt said firmly. “You’ve been family for a long time, Blaine. My dad loves you, he did long before it was an in-law thing.”

“I never thought about him like that,” Blaine confessed, and he saw Kurt’s face fall, saw the openness retreating from his body language, and immediately he said, “I didn’t think I could.”

Kurt softened again, this time sadly, and he said, “Do you really think my dad would let just any of my ex-boyfriends come over to the house and cry all over him?”

“I felt like an awful person for that,” Blaine laughed uncomfortably, remembering his frantic apologies and hasty exit after he had realized exactly what he’d been doing crying on Burt’s couch.

“I asked him to keep an eye on you,” Kurt told him. “You were keeping an eye on each other for me.”

Kurt’s phone rang suddenly, ruining the moment, but Blaine nodded for him to accept the call. It was Burt’s ringtone, after all, and Blaine loved the way Kurt lit up when he was talking to his dad.

“Hey, dad,” Kurt said brightly. “Blaine is here. Let me put you on speaker.”

Kurt set the phone on the table between them, and Blaine felt the unease of nervousness wash over him as Burt grumbled about the echo, only silenced by Kurt’s, “Dad, he’s coming with me.”

The noise on the other end of the line ceased, and Blaine felt his breath catch in his chest.  
  
“Blaine?” Burt finally queried, almost hesitantly. “For Father’s Day?”

“Yeah,” Kurt said at the same moment Blaine broke his silence with, “Yes, Burt.”

“Well, Blaine, that’s great,” Burt choked. He cleared his throat quickly and followed up, “You’re going to be out of school by then?”  
  
“I get out before Kurt does,” Blaine reached for Kurt’s hand, and laced their fingers together over the tabletop.

“See, Kurt, I told you NYADA was ridiculous with that release date,” Burt began, but Kurt cut him off.

“Up until about four minutes ago, Blaine thought this was an in-law thing.”

A blush heated Blaine’s face momentarily as he realized how foolish that sounded in retrospect. “It was nothing personal, Burt.”

“What, did you think you couldn’t think of me without the in-law thing?”

“Maybe,” Blaine acquiesced.

“Yes,” Kurt corrected.

“You’ve been like a son to me since you were sixteen, Blaine,” Burt said firmly.

Blaine nodded, the all-too-familiar lump in his throat keeping his words inside him. Kurt squeezed his hand even tighter.

“You don’t have to call me dad or anything,” Burt was saying, and Blaine’s heart leapt into his mouth. “I might have to call you son, though.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Blaine’s voice broke, and he had to stop and collect himself before he could repeat, “That’s fine. I would like that.”

“I’ll see you both in two months, then,” Burt said.

“Yeah, dad, we’ll book our flights tonight,” Kurt reached up and wiped a tear from Blaine’s cheek as he spoke. “I’ll send you the information.”

“Thanks, Kurt,” Burt seemed a little overwhelmed himself, and Blaine knew there were tears on his end of the line as well. “I’ll see you. Love you, son.”

“Love you too,” Kurt and Blaine replied.

Burt exhaled sharply and hung up the phone.

“Shit,” Blaine muttered. “He meant you. Shit.”

“No, silly,” Kurt tucked his phone into his pocket and pulled Blaine to a standing position. “He meant both of us. Now, go take a shower. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Blaine nodded his response, and Kurt moved away from him towards the kitchen. Blaine stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Yes?” Kurt asked, turning his body towards Blaine in a gesture that made Blaine feel warm with the familiarity of it.

“We talked about kids today,”

Kurt looked shocked, and maybe a little bit hurt. He sat down on the chair Blaine had recently vacated, putting himself behind Blaine.

“Why?” he finally asked.

Blaine waited a moment before he turned and crouched in front of Kurt. He took both of Kurt’s hands in his and said, with blistering honesty, “I am afraid I will be like my dad.”

Something in Kurt’s eyes changed, and Blaine’s heartstrings pulled sourly.

“You won’t be,” Kurt whispered. “I know you won’t. You are twice the man he is, and you will be the most loving, kind, gentle father, and you will love our child so much it’ll be spoiled rotten.”

“Thank you, Kurt,” Blaine kissed him, slowly, gently, and rubbed his thumbs over Kurt’s knuckles. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to try to be. I want to be a good father, so much it hurts, and I’m going to try.”

“I know you are,” Kurt pulled one of his hands free and brought it up to cradle Blaine’s face. “I can’t wait to have a child with you. I trust you.”

Blaine nodded and moved to stand. “I’m going to go shower.”

“Wait,” Kurt said sharply.

With a start, Blaine relaxed into a kneeling position, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Kurt surged forward and kissed Blaine. His other hand came up to rest on the back of Blaine’s neck, pushing them closer together. Blaine opened his mouth automatically under Kurt’s, and Kurt pushed deeper, kissing him soundly and with the earnestness that Blaine had always adored in Kurt. Blaine whimpered and clutched at the fabric of Kurt’s jacket, and he felt Kurt shudder against his mouth.

When Kurt finally pulled away from him, panting slightly, Blaine smiled gently and murmured, “We could both shower.”  
  
“That’s good,” Kurt said immediately. “We’ll both shower. You meant at the same time, right? Let’s go. Showering. Let’s do it.”

Blaine laughed fondly and allowed himself to be pulled down the hallway that led to their bedroom. The lightness in his chest had stayed, and he let himself enjoy it.


	6. The Window (April, 2016)

“Do I have to go?”

“No,” Kurt’s disappointment was apparent in his tone. “But I would really like it if you did.”

“I think it would be better for me if I stayed home,” Blaine said from somewhere underneath his mound of blankets. “I have had a really rough week, and the psychologist’s news didn't help at all.” 

“Are you just using that as an excuse to stay in bed?”

Blaine sat up and looked at Kurt. He wasn't sure if he was more hurt or angry or offended. “Do you really think that little of me?”

“No, Blaine, of course not,” Kurt seemed surprised to see Blaine so upset, and he fidgeted awkwardly. “I just-” 

“You just what? Accused me of faking an illness so that I wouldn't have to go out with you?”

“It sounds really bad when you say it like that,” Kurt folded his arms over his chest and leaned up against the doorframe. 

“It sounds bad no matter which way you say it, because it is bad, Kurt,” Blaine was flushed with embarrassment and anger, and hot tears pricked at his eyes. “I can't believe you would say something like that to me. I thought you understood.” 

“I’m trying to understand, Blaine.” 

“Are you really? Because right now you're being so far from understanding I feel like I don't even know you.” 

“Blaine,”

“I have an illness, Kurt,” Blaine said sharply. He hated being angry with Kurt, but he knew now that he was. Very angry. 

“You can't use that against me-” 

Blaine fought to keep his voice level as he interrupted. “I'm not using anything against you. In fact, you were just using it against me. I have to work at this every single day. You get to go to school and rehearsal and spend eight to ten hours away from it, but it never leaves me, never, and sometimes it's really exhausting, and I just need a day off.”

“Alright,” Kurt’s tone was clipped, brusque, as he checked his pockets for his wallet and phone. “I’ll see you when I get home.” 

Blaine didn't reply. He sat there, numb with surprise and shock, and listened for the sound of the front door closing behind Kurt. When it did, not with an angry slam, but instead a controlled, gentle clicking noise, Blaine cried. 

He was angry and humiliated, and _ scared _ . Kurt was mad at him for something he couldn't control, and he'd left without resolving the issue, which broke one of their primary rules, and Blaine was alone in their bed, in the same Disneyland sweatshirt he’d been wearing since Friday evening, and he was lonely. 

Blaine had met with a psychologist two days ago to see about adjusting his medication, and he had promptly been presented with a brand new diagnosis, and he'd come home feeling like he was about to shake out of his skin. He’d gotten into bed, and hadn't gotten out.

Kurt had been quietly tolerant, and allowed Blaine his space, but tonight was to be Rachel’s last performance at NYADA before her graduation, and it went without saying that he and Blaine were expected to attend. Blaine didn't want to go. He had been to see every single thing Rachel had ever done, sometimes even twice, and he was tired. When the argument had escalated, Blaine had refused to bring up that he had also been there to see the last three times Kurt and Rachel had argued about Rachel’s notable absence at several of Kurt’s performances. That would have been too low of a blow, and Blaine hadn't been aware at the time that there were no holds barred when they fought. 

Blaine cried himself out, and then hauled himself out of bed to take a shower. He pulled his sweatshirt off over his head and dropped it into the hamper, only pausing when he caught his own reflection in the mirror. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes red from crying, and his hair was flat on one side from laying on it. There was a vivid bruise on his torso from where the dance captain had accidentally kicked him in rehearsal, and under the harsh light of the vanity bulbs in their mirror, the scar on his ribs stood out harsh and white against his skin. 

Blaine reached over and turned off the bathroom light. Then he brushed his teeth, turned on the shower, and waited for the water to get hot. It was strangely quiet in the house, and the emptiness of it seemed to burrow under Blaine’s skin. He hummed quietly to himself, but his heart wasn't in it, and he let the quiet be. 

He stood under the water for several minutes, letting the heat relax the tension in his shoulders. The anger was gone now, replaced by a heavy sadness and a persistent nag in the back of his head that he knew was his anxiety making itself known. A million scenarios were racing through his head, half of which ended with him being alone, and none of which ended well. Blaine was having a hard enough time accepting his diagnosis, and it scared him to think that Kurt might not be willing to accept it at all. 

Joe had seemed positive, and while she wasn't pleased that Blaine had been misdiagnosed in the first place, she told him that it was totally manageable, and with an adjustment to his medication, he would start to see an improvement. The problem was, the adjustment meant Blaine was taking more of a different medication, and getting used to it had been hell. He had already called his mother, and she had cried, which had made him cry, and Kurt had captured the moment after Blaine hung up the phone on film. Now Blaine had a polaroid of himself, sitting on the floor in his music room crying, his head turned away from the camera, and he hated that picture a little, but he hadn't let Kurt throw it away. It was artistic, Blaine had said, smiling tightly at Kurt and adding the photo to the bulletin board. 

Blaine shook off that train of thought and tried to focus on washing his hair, but the psychologist’s voice echoed in his head, sending him farther into his head. 

_ “You have Bipolar Disorder.”  _

He couldn't even shower in peace. 

Blaine was in the middle of rinsing his hair when he heard the bedroom door close. Moments later the light was switched on, and Blaine could see the dark shape of Kurt standing in the bathroom doorway.

“Blaine?” Kurt’s voice was hesitant. 

“Yeah,” Blaine answered, blinking soap out of his eyes. “You’re back early.”

“I didn't go,” Kurt said quietly. 

Blaine wanted to pull back the shower curtain and ask why. He didn't open the curtain, but he did ask, “Why not?”

“I needed to be here.”

“Hm,” was all Blaine said. But then he decided he would answer Kurt’s olive branch with one of his own. “Would you pass me a towel?” 

Kurt immediately reached into the cabinet next to the door to pull out a bath towel and Blaine’s big blue bathrobe. 

Blaine didn't open the curtain to take the towel, but instead reached for it, and Kurt left the bathrobe on the stool by the shower.

“I'll be out in a minute,” Blaine said. 

Kurt hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind himself. 

He hated not trusting Kurt, but Blaine decided he deserved one petty behavior, and he didn't really feel like they were in a place which would be helped by anyone being naked. Blaine blotted his hair dry and slipped into his bathrobe. He paused a moment to brace himself, and then went into the bedroom. 

Kurt was there, sitting on his side of the bed with his head in his hands. Before Blaine could say anything, Kurt said, “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, and I shouldn't have left. I broke our rule, and I’m sorry.”

“Why did you say those things, Kurt?” Blaine asked sadly. 

“I was scared, at first,” Kurt wiped away tears with the back of his hand and folded his arms over his chest. “That's not an excuse, I know, but you've been in bed all weekend, and I was so worried, and then you wouldn't get up. And then I was mad at you because you wouldn't come with me, when you know Rachel and I haven't been getting along lately, and I was just unfairly angry. It wasn't anything I should have taken out on you, and I am so sorry.” 

It was quiet for several beats. Then, finally, “I forgive you.” 

“I think I may need some help understanding what you're dealing with,” Kurt’s voice wavered. “I thought I knew, and I thought I could help you, but I don't ever want to hurt you like that again.”

“I really do forgive you, Kurt,” Blaine said. “You know I don't give forgiveness easily these days. I have forgiven you.” 

“Can you just…help me understand?” Kurt looked up at him, and Blaine felt a painful tug in his chest as he noticed the tears in Kurt’s eyes. 

“I can try,” Blaine pulled the robe tighter around himself, and climbed onto the bed. He thought for a moment, trying to remember how Joe had explained it to him. “Carrie Fisher is bipolar. You knew that, right?”

“Princess Leia?” Kurt frowned, confused, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

“She explained it as going either really fast, or really sad. Sometimes both in the same day. And sometimes, there are nothing days,” Blaine pulled the blanket around himself protectively, and said quietly, “Those are bad days. It's not as black and white as that, but that's it in its most basic form.”

“And how is this different from your depression?”

“I have Bipolar II Disorder, which means I have more sad days and more nothing days, but my fast days are still pretty frequent,” Blaine explained. “I'm lucky. It's still hard, though. My depressive spells are worse than most, and if you couple the mania with my anxiety, it's not pretty.” 

“Is it curable?”

“No mental illness is really curable, Kurt,” Blaine frowned slightly. “It's an imbalance in my brain. To put it simply, my body doesn't produce enough chemicals for me to be happy and high functioning. It won't ever be cured. It’s in my biology. I can take medication and I can continue to see a therapist, but it won't go away, like the flu.” 

“Is it going to get better?”

“Are you asking me if I’m going to have more bad days, or if I’m going to see an improvement in my overall health?” 

“Both, I guess,” Kurt murmured.

Blaine thought for a second. “When you get bruised in rehearsal, how does it feel?”

Kurt was momentarily surprised, but he recovered quickly and said, “It hurts.” 

“When does it hurt the worst?”

“Sort of around the third day,” Kurt said with a shrug. “But that just means it’s healing.” 

Blaine smiled, satisfied, and waited for Kurt to get it. 

“Oh,” comprehension dawned on Kurt, and he looked sheepish for a moment. “Was today a bad day?”

“A very bad day,” Blaine sank back into the headboard, exhausted. “I'm sorry.”

“You don't have anything to apologize for,” Kurt patted him on the thigh and stood up. “Do you want tea?”

“Not really.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“That sounds amazing, actually.” 

Kurt nodded in affirmation. He paused for a moment, looking as though he wanted to say something else, but he instead smiled and turned to leave the room. 

Blaine watched him leave, and all of a sudden he was filled with the desire to not be alone. It seemed like the kind of urge he should pay attention to.

“Kurt!” 

Kurt was back almost immediately, quietly yet hurriedly asking, “What's wrong? Are you okay? What do you need?”

“Please don't leave me alone,” Blaine whispered.

“But...this morning, you said…” Kurt was visibly confused, and didn't come any further into the room.

“I know, Kurt,” Blaine said, exasperated. He couldn't offer an explanation for his actions if he didn't even understand them himself, but he was too tired to make the words come so he said, “Just...please.”

“Okay,” Kurt murmured. 

Blaine waited anxiously as Kurt changed out of his jeans and button-up and into a soft sweater and clean boxers. He shifted the blanket aside when Kurt climbed into bed, and when Kurt held his arms open in a welcoming gesture, Blaine moved towards his body as if on a string, and let himself be folded into Kurt’s embrace. 

They were quiet as they lay there, Blaine still cocooned in the blanket, Kurt still considerably confused and a little bit panicked, but both sure the other would say something if something needed to be said. Shortly after their marriage they had made the rule of never going to bed or leaving the house angry with each other. Kurt had suggested it, and Blaine readily agreed. He couldn't sleep when he was upset, so it only seemed fair, but he hadn't understood the addendum of leaving the house angry. 

Kurt had explained, slowly and tearfully, that had been one of his mom’s rules with his dad.  _ What if you don't come back?  _ Elizabeth had said.  _ Don’t leave angry with me, because if you don't come back, you'll always be angry with me.  _

It had taken years of practice to develop that kind of relationship, and every time he and Blaine fought, Kurt was afraid all their hard work had been for nothing. Their fights were louder and more likely to end in tears, but they were also characterized by communication, and an actual solution to the initial problem. When Blaine had spent an extra two hours at rehearsal without telling Kurt and come home to a cold dinner, a frantic husband, and an almost immediate demand of “Where were you?”, they had both worked tirelessly for months to bring themselves back to trusting and communicating the way they had before. 

As they lay in bed, Kurt idly toyed with Blaine’s curls, wrapping them around his fingers and pulling them to watch them spring back against Blaine’s head. His hair was damp and clean, and Blaine was warm and heavy against Kurt’s side. The steady rhythm of the action soothed Blaine, and after several minutes, he relaxed enough to speak without fear of his voice shaking. 

“Kurt,” Blaine said, so quietly that Kurt almost didn't hear him.

“Hmm?” 

“I don't want to have bad days for the rest of my life.” 

There was something in Blaine’s tone of voice that made Kurt feel cold inside. It scared him that he couldn't just make this better, and Blaine knew that. Kurt was so used to doing everything he could to fix an issue, that when confronted with something he couldn't change and couldn't control, like his father’s cancer, and Blaine’s depression, it scared him.

“I wish I could just take it away,” Kurt whispered. 

Blaine could hear the tears in Kurt’s voice, and his heart ached, but he didn't know what to say to make it easier for him. 

“I can tell you that I’ll always love you,” Kurt continued. “Even and especially on your bad days. I know I was hurtful today, and I'm sorry, but I'll try to be more patient, even and especially when you lose patience with yourself, and I’ll hold you any time you want.” 

Blaine frowned into the pillow of Kurt’s chest and said, “I’m scared.”

“I know, honey,” Kurt continued to run his hands through Blaine’s hair, willing Blaine’s body to relax. “That's okay. You don't have to be scared forever. We’re going to help you.” 

“You and whose army?” Blaine murmured sleepily. 

Kurt laughed lightly, fondly, and leaned down to kiss Blaine on the head. “I think you should rest.”

“I've been resting all day,” Blaine muttered bitterly.

“Did you take your meds?”

“Not yet,” Blaine burrowed deeper into Kurt’s side, pressing his knees into Kurt’s thigh. 

“I’ll get them. Do you want to watch a movie? I don't have rehearsal tonight.” 

“I just want you to hold me,” Blaine said. “I missed you.”

“Missed me? I was gone for barely an hour.”

“You've been different since my diagnosis.” 

Blaine felt the tension set into Kurt’s body, and he whimpered when he pulled away. 

“I'm so sorry,” Kurt said. “I didn't mean to.”

“I know,” Blaine soothed. “I understand.”

“No, Blaine, I am sorry,” Kurt was growing more upset by the second, and Blaine felt his own anxiety rising. “I didn't mean to leave you alone with that.”

“I forgive you,” Blaine said hurriedly, and then, “I think you should talk to Joe.” 

“What?” Kurt leaned back against Blaine. “Why?”

“She can talk to you about what I'm dealing with and probably help you understand how to deal with it.”

“Aren't there confidentiality laws or something?” 

“You would come to a session with me,” Blaine explained with a soft laugh. “We could talk about this fight and what we can do to avoid another one like it.”

“Alright,” Kurt agreed after a moment. “I think that might be a good idea.” 

“You know what else might be a good idea?”

“What?”

“Dinner,” Blaine said. “I haven't eaten today.”

Kurt frowned, apparently concerned, but Blaine smiled at him. 

“I'll go get us dinner,” Kurt extricated himself from Blaine’s grip, and reached under the bed to retrieve his laptop. “You pick a movie.”

“Meg Ryan?” Blaine asked Kurt’s retreating back. 

“Chinese food?” Kurt called over his shoulder, not expecting an answer. 

Blaine smiled to himself. His earlier anxieties were still there, they always would be, but they were smaller now, as he was confident and sure that he and Kurt were going to get through this. 

They’d been through worse and come out on the other side, maybe with sharper senses of humor and a few unhealthy coping mechanisms, but still together and still in one piece. They were going to be fine.


	7. The Piano (May, 2016)

Blaine was tired of crying. He felt like that was all he did. He’d cried his way through his senior year of high school, cried himself to sleep for months after his engagement ended, and now all he did in therapy was cry, talk about his feelings, and then cry some more because ninety percent of the time, he didn't understand his feelings. 

His father had discouraged crying, never allowing Blaine to throw tantrums or cry during movies as a child, and Blaine had often found himself struggling with the sheer immensity of the emotions he felt and trying to reconcile them with the fact he wasn't allowed to display them openly. Having experienced this, Blaine couldn't figure out why he seemed to be weeping his way through his young adult life. 

He’d brought this up to Joe, and she had told him it was normal, especially since he’d had to suppress most of his emotions as a child, and instead of becoming a detached adult, he’d been made more empathetic by it. She had also said that he hadn't cried in therapy recently, and the always present box of Kleenex was in ill disuse, so did Blaine happen to remember when the crying started?

That had dredged up a topic Blaine had not been prepared for, and he’d left therapy with the kind of bad headache one only gets after crying too hard for too long. 

He was thinking about the topic of the afternoon now as he pounded away at the piano, where he had been since he got home from therapy that afternoon. The small lamp on top of the piano lit the immediate area in warm gold, and sweat beaded at Blaine’s hairline as a sticky May breeze filtered in through the open window on the opposing wall. 

Blaine lifted his hands from the keys and took a deep breath. He was trembling slightly, he noticed, and his neck ached from leaning over the piano. It was dark outside, and much later than Blaine realized. Kurt should be back by now, but Blaine hadn’t heard a key in the door, and the silence permeating the house now that he had stopped playing felt like a presence in itself.

He knew, logically, that he needed to take a break. Blaine’s hands were shaking slightly, and his eyes were bleary and sore, but he kept stumbling over the same section, and every time he swore to himself he’d try it once more, he would mess it up again. 

With a resigned sigh, Blaine realigned his fingers with his starting chord, and closed his eyes. The sheet music resting against the stand in front of him was barely legible, but somewhere behind his endless scribbled notations and changes there was a simple black staff with a chord progression that Blaine knew he could play. 

His head knew it, anyway. His hands didn’t. There seemed to be communication issues between the two. 

Blaine visualized the contour line of the melody in his head and gently played a chord. His body moved almost on autopilot, carrying him through the next several bars of music carefully and easily. He hadn’t played this particular piece since he’d first written it almost four years ago, but he didn’t allow himself any grace when he navigated the key change incorrectly for what must have been the eightieth time. 

“Damn it!” he shouted, pulling his hands from the piano and standing up abruptly enough to knock the piano bench backwards.

The anger inside of him was directionless and unnecessary, but he still quivered with it. 

“Hey,” came Kurt’s quiet voice from the doorway. 

Blaine jumped, and just barely kept himself from yelling again. 

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked gently. 

Blaine didn’t answer immediately. He felt overly warm and sore and tired, and he’d been playing the piano for years now, why couldn’t he manage this simple modulation? 

“Fine,” he finally said. “Just frustrated.” 

“How long have you been going at this?”

“Since I got home from Joe’s,” Blaine mumbled, lifting his still shaking hands to frown at them. 

“Blaine,” Kurt’s tone was level and serious. “It’s nine o’clock.”

Blaine lowered his hands slowly, and looked over at Kurt. Concern was apparent in every facet of Kurt’s body language, from his furrowed brow to his folded arms. 

Blaine couldn’t help the surprise in his tone as he said, “What?”

“I texted you earlier,” Kurt explained, not moving from the doorway. “Rehearsal ran late tonight. It’s nine. You’ve been playing for six hours.” 

Kurt had barely finished speaking before Blaine blurted, “I talked about Sadie Hawkins today.”

“Oh,” Kurt breathed. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet between them was filled with the memory of the evening Blaine had told Kurt the entire story, recounting the fear his barely fourteen year old self had felt as he had been crushed up against an unforgiving brick wall and beaten. Kurt had been holding him as he sobbed his way through the account, and when Blaine described the clinically detached way his father had behaved at his hospital bedside, his grip around Blaine’s shoulders had tightened protectively. 

“Did it…” Kurt paused, testing the waters. “Are you...is this mania?”

Something flashed in Blaine’s eyes, a cold sort of hurt, and Kurt readied himself to apologize, but it went as quickly as it came, and in that instant, the fight seemed to leave Blaine.

“Yeah.” 

“What do you need?” Kurt asked immediately. 

“I don't know,” Blaine whispered plaintively. “I’m just so sick of crying, Kurt.” 

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

“This morning, yes,” Blaine said. “But if it really is nine, then I missed my dose this evening.”

Kurt didn't say anything. He didn't scold or complain. He held his hand out towards Blaine, and waited patiently for Blaine to step away from the piano and take it firmly in his own. 

Blaine followed as Kurt led him downstairs and into the kitchen. He settled himself into his seat at the breakfast table, and stared at the grain in the wood of the tabletop as he listened to Kurt move around their kitchen with a controlled, quiet gait. 

Within two minutes, two slices of peanut butter toast, a mug of hot chocolate, a small glass of water, and three prescription bottles were set on the table in front of Blaine. 

“Please eat,” Kurt whispered into Blaine’s ear. He kissed him on the cheek, and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Blaine was left in their warmly lit kitchen, staring at the food in front of him. Steam curled off the top of his hot chocolate, and his bright orange prescription bottles seemed awfully small for all that the pills inside did for Blaine. 

He forced down the toast, knowing he couldn't take his meds on an empty stomach, and when his hot chocolate was half gone, he turned his attention to the prescriptions. Blaine opened each bottle in turn, taking out his prescribed dosage and washing them down with small sips of water. When they were all down, Blaine relaxed back into his seat and wished away his pounding headache. 

Kurt came back in then, and smiled at Blaine. “How do you feel now?”

“Better,” Blaine said. 

“Good,” Kurt took away Blaine’s plate and put the prescription bottles away in their recently designated drawer. He came back to the table and sat down in front of Blaine. “Tell me about your day.”

“I have a headache,” it was the first thing that came to mind, and thus, the first thing Blaine told him. “I had a headache when I left therapy.”

“Why did you start playing if you had a headache?”

“I needed to be doing something,” Blaine muttered. “And I didn't want to go for a walk. I wanted to be at home.”

“Why were you yelling when I came in?” Kurt took Blaine’s half empty cup of cocoa and finished it in two long swallows. He met Blaine’s amused look over the rim of the mug with a challenging look of his own. 

“I couldn't play the modulation in the piece I was working on,” Blaine said. 

“Would you play it for me?”

Blaine shrugged. “I haven't really got it right, yet.” 

“Blaine, you just rehearsed it for six hours,” Kurt pulled Blaine up off the chair and ignored his feeble protests as he led him up the stairs and down the hall. “I’m sure it's the best thing you've ever played.”

“Well, it's not the playing, really, it's the writing,” Blaine explained as Kurt righted the piano bench and then pushed him down onto it. 

“You wrote this?” Kurt furrowed his brow at the sheet music on the stand. “I see your problem. This isn't music. It's scribbling.” 

“It's just annotated,” Blaine huffed. 

“Forget it,” Kurt plucked the music from the rest and tossed it aside dramatically. “Just let your hands do the work.”

“You’ll be saying that later, too,” Blaine teased. 

Kurt seemed caught off guard by the shift in Blaine’s mood, but he played along. “Was that an innuendo?”

“No,” Blaine forced a somber expression and shook his head earnestly. “It was a double entendre.”

Kurt grinned and took a step back. “Play, Rachmaninoff.”

Blaine rolled his shoulders nervously. “Alright, but don't expect much, it still needs work, and I-”

“Blaine,” Kurt interrupted, “Just play.” 

With one last shrug of his shoulders, Blaine did just that. He felt the hesitancy slowly leave his body as he let instinct take over, and the music came readily and easily. It had been a long time since music had been so natural for Blaine, and he barely noticed as Kurt took the Polaroid down off its designated shelf and snapped a photo. 

Blaine played the piece from memory, substituting notes where he drew a blank, and letting the music take on its own tempo, ignoring the stark regulations of the time signature. He knew it was messy, but it flowed, and as he sailed through his earlier problem section with ease, a confidence took root inside of him. The piece finished on a resounding note, and when Blaine eased his foot off the pedal, the room was silent.

“You're beautiful when you play,” Kurt said. There was something in his tone, something that Blaine had come to know as pride, awed and reverent, and Blaine felt a lightness expand and fill his chest. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. He had yet to raise his head from where he sat staring at the keyboard. 

“That was amazing,” Kurt told him. “What was it you were struggling with when I came in earlier?”

“That's a loaded question,” Blaine rose from the bench and closed the piano lid. “It worked itself out, though.”

Kurt didn't respond. 

Blaine watched as he crossed the room and went to the cork board. Kurt pulled a sharpie and a photo from his pocket, and hurriedly scrawled something onto the photo before he tacked it to the board. 

“Come on, Liberace,” Kurt said at last as he turned away from the wall. “You can look at that later. Right now, you need a back rub to help with that headache.”

Blaine was certainly not going to object to that, so he once again allowed himself to be led out of the music room and down the stairs. When they got to the bedroom, he stripped off his shirt and jeans, and lay facedown on the bed in his boxers. Kurt laughed lightly, and climbed on top of him, straddling Blaine’s thighs. 

“No fair,” Blaine whined, wiggling his hips as he felt the coarse material of Kurt’s jeans rub against his skin. 

“I’m shirts and you’re skins,” Kurt quipped, and Blaine laughed into the crook of his elbow. 

His laugh quickly turned into a groan as Kurt dug his thumbs into the knots in Blaine’s shoulders, traveling slowly over the warm expanse of Blaine’s back, soothing the tense and tired muscles. The pressure in Blaine’s head was alleviated when Kurt gently worked at the base of Blaine’s neck, his strong hands melting the stress in the corded muscles where Blaine’s neck and shoulder met.

“This is my favorite part of your body,” Kurt whispered, breaking the heavy silence in the room.

“My neck?”

“This place here,” Kurt leaned over Blaine’s body and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “The slope where your shoulder becomes your neck.” 

“That's...interesting,” Blaine wasn't sure what to do with that information, but he decided to not read into it too much. “I love your collarbones.”

“I know you do,” Kurt said with a soft laugh. “My colleagues also know you love my collarbones.”

Blaine felt a blush rise in his cheeks, aided in part by the fact Kurt was pressing open mouthed kisses to the line of his shoulders. 

“Kurt,” Blaine murmured. “I don't want-”

“That's not my goal,” Kurt interrupted. “I just want you to relax. I want you to feel good.”

“I feel much better,” Blaine said, noticing his headache was mostly gone, and the feeling of anxiety from earlier that day was a manageable thrum under his skin. 

“Good,” Kurt rolled off of Blaine and lay on his back next to him. They lay there in peace, just watching each other, Kurt in careful assessment, and Blaine with heavy, half-lidded eyes. 

“Would you kiss me?” Blaine asked in a low voice.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Kurt searched Blaine’s face for any sign of a joke, or a change of mind, and Blaine pushed himself up on his forearms to look down at Kurt.

“You on top of me and kissing me doesn't have to end in sex,” Blaine said. “Which isn't what I want.”

“We could pretend we’re sixteen again,” Kurt joked, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Let’s not do that,” Blaine suggested, but he was laughing. 

Kurt rose up on one elbow and brought himself closer to Blaine. “So you want me to kiss you?” 

“Just a little bit, yeah,” Blaine rolled over onto his back, then, and turned his head to look at Kurt.

Something caught in Kurt’s chest at the sight of Blaine lying there, relaxed and open, with a slight blush to his cheeks and a sleepy, happy smile on his face. 

“God,” Kurt said.

Blaine raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Who?”

Kurt rolled his eyes at the quip and sat up. He positioned himself over Blaine, with one arm on either side of Blaine’s body. 

“I love you so much,” he said. 

Blaine smiled up at him, pliant and trusting. “I love you, too. Now kiss me.”

Kurt did. 

 

Later that night, Blaine left Kurt sleeping in their bed and crept up the stairs to the music room. He opened the door quietly and paused for a moment as he took in the sight before him. Moonbeams cut through the darkness, casting watery oblongs of light on the hardwood floor, and a gentle breeze moved through the trees outside. A heavy feeling of peace settled itself onto Blaine’s shoulders, and he smiled to himself as he tiptoed across the floor and to the photo board. 

The new polaroid was a photo of his hands in motion, suspended over the keys of his piano, and Blaine shook his head at how Kurt-like the gesture was. He could hear Kurt’s voice in his head telling him it was artistic for photos to be blurry and poorly lit. 

Blaine’s heart stuttered in his chest as his eyes came to rest on the caption Kurt had chosen. It was a series of musical notes, and Blaine recognized them immediately as the bridge that had been giving him so much trouble. Kurt knew exactly what Blaine had been struggling with. 

After a moment, Blaine turned and left the room. He hurried down the stairs and to the door of their bedroom, which still stood slightly ajar as he had left it minutes before. Blaine closed the door behind himself and climbed into the bed. He lay down next to Kurt, who was still sleeping, his body curved as though Blaine was spooned in his arms. Blaine impulsively moved forward and kissed Kurt on the forehead.

Kurt awoke immediately, and his eyes immediately found Blaine’s. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Blaine murmured. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kurt replied, his voice heavy with sleep. “Go to sleep, Blaine.”  

“Kurt,” Blaine hesitated slightly as Kurt moved to roll over and go back to sleep. 

His tone of voice brought Kurt to attention, and he shifted towards Blaine slightly as he reached out to card his fingers through Blaine’s hair. “What is it, honey?”

“Would you hold me?”

“Of course,” Kurt reacted without pause and lifted the blanket to encourage Blaine to move closer to him. 

Blaine tucked himself into the half circle of Kurt’s sleep-warm body and pressed his back impossibly close to Kurt’s chest. Kurt’s arm immediately fell into place in the dip of Blaine’s waist, and one of his legs settled between Blaine’s thighs. The shallow rise and fall of Kurt’s chest told Blaine that he hadn't gone back to sleep yet, and he felt guilty for waking him up to ask for something he knew he could have.

“Stop that,” Kurt whispered into the back of Blaine’s neck. “You're thinking too loudly. The guilt is coming off of you in waves.” 

“How did you know?” 

“I always hold you when we sleep,” Kurt’s voice was pitched deep and raspy with exhaustion, and Blaine shivered at the break in Kurt’s usually clear, high tone. “When you ask me to hold you, it means you need me to be awake for it.” 

“Do I really do it that often?” 

“Only when you're upset or lonely. Or overwhelmed,” Kurt kissed Blaine’s shoulder and rested his head against it. “Which one is it?”

“Overwhelmed, I think,” Blaine said. “But in a good way.”

Kurt hummed a response and kissed Blaine’s shoulder again. His thumb was lazily stroking Blaine’s hipbone above the waistband of his boxers, and Blaine could feel that every inch of his skin was goosebumps, even though he was impossibly warm under their comforter. 

They lay there for several minutes, Kurt awake enough to keep Blaine company, and Blaine awake enough to appreciate it. 

After what seemed like an impossibly long time, Blaine said, “Goodnight, Kurt.”

“Goodnight, Blaine,” Kurt replied. “I love you.”

It was a matter of seconds before Kurt was fast asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, and Blaine felt every rise and fall of his chest as he willed himself to sleep. 

Kurt shifted in his sleep, tightening his arm around Blaine’s waist, pulling Blaine’s hips flush to his own. He sleepily pressed his forehead to Blaine’s back and settled back down, leaving Blaine nearly trembling with emotion. 

“I know you do,” Blaine whispered to the quiet of the room. “I love you too.” 


	8. New York, New York (May, 2016)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i don't know anything about how nyu/tisch works. do they have student music directors? did they really do 'the producers' in their 2016 season? do they really cast understudies from the production staff? i don't know. i didn't look it up, either. i took artistic liberties.

“Schubert? Schumann? Bach?” Kurt cleared his throat in obvious irritation and leaned against the closed top of the rehearsal piano. “I can’t believe I used Rachmaninoff already. Liberace? Used that. I remember.”  
  
“In the same day,” Blaine reminded him. “Within five minutes of each other.”

“I was on a roll,” Kurt commented with a grin. “Alright, how about...Liszt? I can’t have used Liszt before.”

“Liszt is new,” Blaine allowed, and laughed when Kurt cheered triumphantly. 

“I’ll take my entrance again, then, shall I?” Kurt picked up his satchel and left the room. 

Blaine waited for his knock on the door, and called “Come in,” at the appropriate moment. Kurt came in and dropped his bag on the floor, loudly and with an air of drama. He draped himself over the piano and said, “Franz, darling, please close the piano and come home for dinner.” 

Blaine could barely contain his smile as he lifted his hands from the piano and closed the lid. “What was that accent supposed to be? A poor impersonation of Ingrid Bergman?”

“No, more like an impersonation of Lucille Ball’s impersonation of Ingrid Bergman,” Kurt turned and went back for his bag, an easy smile on his face. 

Blaine hummed thoughtfully. “It’s like Inception.”

“You hated Inception,” Kurt stated.

“But I still watched Inception,” Blaine countered.

“Clearly, you didn’t, because that is nothing like Inception,” Kurt scoffed jokingly. “I look nothing like Ellen Page, and neither of us could pass for Joseph Gordon-Levitt.”

“Ellen Page was in Inception? Are we talking about the same movie?” 

“You have spent way too long in this rehearsal room,” Kurt declared. “Get your bag. We’re going out for dinner.” 

“He’s only an inch taller than me,” Blaine muttered under his breath as he stacked his music in a pile and crammed it into his well-worn messenger bag. 

“Which makes him two inches shorter than me,” Kurt said. “You have better hair, though.” 

Blaine  reached up to self-consciously run a hand through his untamed hair. “Do I?” 

“Your hair is always going to be better than anyone else’s, no matter what you’ve done with it or what the various dress codes enforced on you during your life may have made you think about it,” Kurt said succinctly. “Now, would you rather have sandwiches or pizza for dinner?”

“Soup sounds good,” Blaine reached under the piano bench for his binder and crammed that into his bag as well.

“Nobody mentioned soup,” Kurt replied, bemused. “But I think we can work something out.” 

“Does that something include me going to the theatre and you bringing me soup and coffee in a little insulated bag with a post-it note declaring your affection for me?” 

“You can’t leave?” Kurt seemed crestfallen.

Blaine shook his head regretfully. “No, I really can’t. I have a couple people coming in to go through their solos one last time, and then I have to work on my own.” 

“Remind me again why they over-extended you as music director and understudy to one of the leads?” 

“Because I was the best choice for both,” Blaine said. “That’s what the director said. Our department head wasn’t thrilled about it, either, but I’d already begun rehearsals and it wouldn’t have made sense to shake up the parts.” 

“Well, fine,” Kurt smiled absently and turned to leave. “I’ll bring you soup, but I won’t bring you coffee.” 

“Kurt, I don’t think it would kill me to have one cup of coffee,” Blaine objected, knowing full well it was a waste of effort. 

“Not until you’ve had your physical and the doctor says it’s safe,” Kurt said firmly.

He had read the small print warning label that had come tucked into the bag with Blaine’s new medication, and exclaimed in horror when he saw the note about the combination of caffeine and certain antidepressants raising your blood pressure. Blaine hadn’t had a cup of coffee since. He’d had several dozen cups of hot cocoa, but now that they were well into May, it was too warm for that. Besides, Blaine really missed coffee. 

Blaine adopted a long-suffering tone and sighed dramatically. “Fine. When is my check-up?”

“I can’t remember. We’ve had to reschedule it twice because of all these damn rehearsals,” Kurt grumbled. 

“Kurt,” Blaine’s tone was level. “You know it’s been good for me.”

“I’ve been lonely.” 

“You’ve been abstinent,” Blaine corrected, laughing brightly at Kurt’s offended look. “Don’t worry. After tonight this will be over, and then in two weeks you’ll have graduated. There will be plenty of cause for celebration.” 

“Fine,” Kurt said, with one hand resting on the doorknob. “I don’t think you deserve soup now, but I’ll bring it to you anyway.” 

“Thank you,” Blaine went to stand by Kurt, and kissed him gently on the mouth. “See you in twenty. I’ll be in the auditorium.”

“Twenty,” Kurt scoffed. “I should go to Brooklyn to get your damn soup and make you wait.” 

“I have to take my medication in twenty minutes, and I can’t do that on an empty stomach.” 

Kurt seemed a little surprised, and he held up his phone to check the time. “Oh, shit, you’re right. You have it with you?”  
  
“Yes, Kurt,” Blaine patted the front pocket of his messenger bag where the small plastic container with his meds was stored. 

“You are so not getting coffee now,” Kurt opened the door with an air of finality. “See you in twenty. Ish. Twenty-ish.” 

Blaine nodded his response, and they parted ways at the door of the music room. 

 

Blaine’s soup did not arrive in an insulated bag with a post-it note, but there was a polaroid attached, and Kurt also kissed him firmly and declared his affection for him, which Blaine could begrudgingly admit was an improvement upon his initial request.

Kurt didn’t stay to watch rehearsal, and Blaine was quietly grateful for that. He always needed some time before shows to collect himself, and being alone in the dressing room was the best way he knew to do that. 

A sensible man would have gone home before a big opening performance. He would have kissed his husband, taken a shower, maybe had a quick nap, and caught the subway back to his place of work just in time to be ushered into makeup. Blaine was sensible, but he also lived a good half hour subway ride away, and he’d already kissed his husband, so going home wasn't really on the table.

Once his cast members had left and Blaine had rehearsed his own music, he made his way to the dressing room and seated himself at his assigned mirror. He pulled out his headphones and selected a playlist of mellow, piano driven music. His makeup kit was spread out in front of him, and he eyed himself critically in the mirror for a long moment. 

Blaine remembered the last time he had really stopped to look at himself, and he shuddered at the thought. It had been the day of the fight, not too long ago, and he remembered his pallid complexion and tired, defeated looking posture. He didn't look sad today, or drawn, yet there was a tiredness in his eyes that he had been seeing often lately, but hadn't quite gotten used to. There were dark smudges under his eyes that hadn't been there before, product of sleepless nights brought to him by the exhaustive rehearsal process of the semester musical. 

Music directing was exhausting, and Blaine had told himself he would never again be roped into doing it. Part of him had loved it, and it had been good for him to stay busy, but Blaine had initially resented being given the position. He wanted to be onstage, not behind it. His name was in the program, set in size ten typeface, right under the bold heading of ‘Musical Direction By’, and his name was demoted by a smaller italic addendum of ‘F’. Blaine was used to shrugging off questions as to why he was such an old freshman, and he knew he was going to be in for a slew of them after tonight. 

Blaine had graciously accepted the position of music director, aware it was only his age that gained him the position; freshmen were not usually allowed such places on the production team, and he had decided to be the best damn music director Tisch had ever seen. Recently, anyway. The only bump in the road was that two weeks into rehearsals he had been asked to double up as the understudy for one of the leading men.

“Come on, Blaine, it's just a little part. Only three solos,” the director had wheedled. 

“I can't tap dance,” Blaine had offered as his only objection. Not  _ I’m too busy,  _ or  _ Don’t we have swings for that,  _ or  _ Why not Derek?  _ but that was mostly because Blaine didn't care much for Derek and didn't want to give him any opportunities. 

“You can learn,” the director had said decidedly, and Blaine had agreed. 

So, on top of music directing a thirty person ensemble composed almost entirely of students with greater seniority than himself, Blaine had also learned the role of Neil Bloom. He was no Michael Broderick, but their Bialystock was no Nathan Lane, so he figured it all came out even. He’d put in hours transposing the music for Olga, silently cursing the fool who cast a lyric soprano in a stage mezzo role, and he'd put double that many hours into learning the complicated choreography for Neil’s big number.

Ultimately Blaine was just glad he hadn't been asked to fill in for a tap dancing Nazi. He would have had a few choice words for the director if he'd been asked to do that. Something along the lines of, “Would you like to see the photos of my great-great paternal grandfather standing outside an internment camp in 1944? I thought not,” but with more swear words and the same piercing, white hot sort of anger that Blaine always felt when the subject of his father’s family came up. Fortunately, it hasn't come to that, but when the boy initially cast as Neil Bloom had torn a ligament in his ankle after trying to fouetté while wearing sneakers, Blaine had tiredly accepted that he would now be moving into the role. 

Kurt had objected fiercely, and demanded to know why there wasn't any other medium-sized tenor in the entirety of Tisch who could take the part, and Blaine, after feigning offense at the suggestion he was anything less than average-sized, told Kurt that he didn't mind. So Kurt didn't mind, either. 

Blaine really didn't mind the bags under his eyes or the near constant ache in his knees. Sometimes his hands shook, and sometimes he had bad headaches, but he had come by his exhaustion honestly. He wouldn't trade it for the world. 

As he shook himself out of his stupor and began sorting through the makeup in front of him, the dressing room door opened and several chorus members came in, chattering quietly as they dropped their heavy duffel bags to the floor and spread their things out along the vanity counter. A few of them greeted Blaine, and he smiled at them warmly, but his headphones were still in, and they understood he wanted to be left alone. 

Blaine went through his preparation in no time, and when he stood to put on his costume, the stage manager was calling twenty minutes to cast meeting. The familiar pre-show excitement began to settle in, then, and Blaine grew more and more antsy as the evening wore on. He could barely stand still in the company meeting, and he raced through his pre-show ritual of singing scales, drinking water, and dutifully swallowing two tablespoons of honey to coat his throat. His cast members watched him with an affectionate sort of bemusement, and a few of them exchanged knowing grins as he practically leapt with excitement when the stage manager called places.

Customary well wishes were exchanged, Blaine was told to break way more legs than he bodily possessed, more people touched him than he would have allowed in any other situation, and he realized just as the house lights went down that he desperately needed to use the restroom, but none of that mattered when the conductor raised his baton and the overture began. 

Kurt was somewhere in the sea of faces occupying the seats, and Blaine was glad he didn't know specifically which one. There was nothing worse than spotting someone you knew in the audience. He accepted an encouraging thumbs up from a stagehand right before he was meant to enter, and when the stage lights hit him, already hot after just ten minutes, he came alive. Blaine knew he hit every mark flawlessly. Not easily, but flawlessly. Nothing about it was easy. He missed a few tap sounds, and he accidentally bumped into a chorus girl, but everything was taken in stride and glossed over in what appeared to be an effortless fashion. When the company gave their bow, one person in the audience jumped up, and Blaine knew then where Kurt had been sitting the whole time. 

The show was met with a standing ovation, and Blaine rushed backstage at the earliest possible moment to shed his costume, wash off his makeup, and gather up his belongings. The excited post-show chatter in the dressing room was loud and jovial, and Blaine found himself laughing along when someone pointed out how he’d almost knocked Jessica over during the big number. Inside jokes were exchanged as costumes were hung up, faces were washed, and phones were pulled out of the bags they'd been remanded to at the beginning of the night. 

Everyone in the dressing room called a loud and hearty, “Goodnight, Blaine!” when he shouldered his bag and went towards the door. He bowed dramatically and said, “You are most welcome, fellow players.” 

Someone jeered, probably Derek, and Blaine rolled his eyes tolerantly as he pushed the back door open and let himself out of the building.

Kurt was waiting there, leaning up against the brick wall with a bouquet of slightly wilted roses in his hands. He smiled brilliantly at Blaine, and crushed him in an all encompassing hug. 

“You were incredible,” he murmured into the shell of Blaine’s ear, and Blaine thanked him quietly. Kurt held out the roses and said, “They're a little tired looking, but still get the point across.”

Blaine took them, smiling, and reached out for Kurt’s hand. “What was your favorite part of the show?”

“The end, where I got to jump up and tell everyone around me that was my husband up there.”

“Kurt,” Blaine admonished, blushing slightly. “You don't really say that, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Kurt said simply. “I also shut down anyone who tries to compare you to Gene Kelly. Your voice is much stronger than his, for one thing.”

“I’m alright with that comparison,” Blaine admitted. “It makes me feel better about my dance capabilities.”

“Gene Kelly was a contrived, homophobic tyrant who verbally abused women,” Kurt stated flatly. “And Donald O’Connor was a much better dancer than him.”

“Wow, Kurt,” Blaine laughed. “Don’t hold back, tell us how you really feel.”

“I thoroughly enjoyed myself,” Kurt said, and Blaine again murmured his thanks. 

He let himself be hugged again, and he settled his body against Kurt’s for a lingering moment. When he pulled away, Kurt was smiling softly, and Blaine couldn't help but smile back, despite the heavy exhaustion settling itself onto his shoulders.

It was late, almost eleven, and they still had the commute home before them. “Can we get a cab home? I have a bruise on my thigh the size of an apple and three months of sleep to catch up on.”

“So, you're in a hurry to get home?” Kurt seemed almost disappointed.

“Well, yeah,” Blaine eyed Kurt questioningly. “Unless you had plans. My leg doesn't hurt that badly.”

“No, no,” Kurt said hastily. “They're not terribly important. The plans, I mean. I just wanted to take you out for dinner. To celebrate.”

“Kurt, I've had dozens of opening nights,” Blaine replied with an amused smile. “I won't be offended if we don't celebrate this one.”

“It wasn't to celebrate opening night,” Kurt said softly. 

Blaine waited for him to explain. 

“You've been going to therapy for ten months today,” Kurt’s voice was quiet, but Blaine felt himself physically pull back at his words. 

His mind was reeling, and he had so many questions, mainly, _How do you remember?_ and _Has it really been that long?_ and _How did I forget that?_ but he settled for, “Why would you want to celebrate that?”

Kurt looked over at him, startled. In the dimly lit lot he looked pale, and the shadows cast odd angles across his face. Blaine softened at the openness of Kurt’s expression. He saw pride and love with the confusion, and eventually Kurt smiled, a small, tight smile, and said, “Blaine, how long has it been since you've had a panic attack?”

“Um,” Blaine was ready to answer, but it struck him in that moment that he couldn't remember. The realization shook him, and he realized it had been a long moment without him responding. “A while?”

“Three months, Blaine,” Kurt supplied. “It's been three months.” 

“Has it?” Blaine floundered, feeling oddly disconnected and a tad overwhelmed.

Kurt reached out and took his hand, grounding him, and Blaine squeezed tightly. 

“I'm very proud of you, Blaine, everyone is, and I just thought maybe it was time for a little reminder,” Kurt rubbed his thumb along Blaine’s knuckles and smiled. “It's alright if you don't want to go tonight. I can pick any other day to remind you how much I love you.” 

“We could do dinner,” Blaine said at last. It had been a long couple of months, but he had gone this long without a restful night’s sleep. What was one more evening? 

“We can still take a cab,” Kurt offered. 

Blaine smiled. He held up his roses in one hand and raised aloft his other hand, still intertwined with Kurt’s. “You'll have to get it. My hands are full.” 


	9. The Coffee Shop (June, 2016)

Blaine could feel the nervous tension radiating off of Kurt as he watched while Kurt re-ironed his suit. For the third time. 

“Kurt, I’m positive there are no wrinkles in that suit.” 

“Don’t start with me,” Kurt said sharply as he roughly turned the shoulder over the ironing board and flattened the seam. 

Blaine paused a moment to assess Kurt’s mood. He was flushed slightly, and his mouth was set in a grim line. Kurt’s own anxiety manifested differently from Blaine’s own, and it was sometimes difficult for Blaine to discern between Kurt’s symptoms. 

“Kurt,” Blaine said gently. “Why don’t you hang up your suit and come sit with me?”

“It isn’t finished,” Kurt’s tone was glacial, cutting, but Blaine knew it wasn’t directed at him. Before he could say anything else Kurt said, “I graduate tomorrow, Blaine.” 

“You certainly do,” Blaine said. 

“I don’t know how to not be a student,” Kurt’s voice was hurried, like he was afraid the right words would abandon him if he didn’t get them out as soon as possible. “Everything I’ve ever done has contributed to my academic career. What if I can’t make the transition? What if I can’t use my degree? I can’t work at a deli, Blaine. I just can’t.”

As he spoke, his movements grew sharper, less finessed, and Blaine rose slowly from his perch on the bed to stand by Kurt’s side. 

“Kurt, I really think you should take a break,” Blaine said in his very best  _ don’t argue with me  _ voice. “Put the iron away and I’ll hang up your suit.” 

Kurt didn’t reply, but he did set the iron in its cradle, and when Blaine had hung the suit, he folded the ironing board and leaned it against the wall. He stood there for a moment, looking helpless and a little bit overwhelmed. Blaine paused, and then held open his arms. Kurt closed the space between them in two steps and folded himself into Blaine’s embrace. 

Blaine pushed himself up on his toes to rest his chin on Kurt’s shoulder, and Kurt fisted handfuls of Blaine’s sweater in an iron grip. 

“I can’t stop thinking there’s going to be no place for me out there,” Kurt whispered. 

“There might not be,” Blaine said levelly. “But if there isn’t, you’ll make one. That’s what you’ve always done, Kurt.”

“That’s exhausting,” Kurt murmured into Blaine’s chest.

“I know,” Blaine whispered. “It’ll be hard. But you won’t have failed until you give up, and you and I both know the Anderson-Hummel family is known for their stubbornness.”

“I love when you say that,” Kurt’s grip on Blaine’s shirt relaxed slightly, and Blaine pressed a kiss to the side of Kurt’s neck. 

“Anderson-Hummel?” 

“Family.” 

“Burt would go nuts if he could hear us,” Blaine said with a smile, and Kurt laughed. 

After a moment Kurt said, “I guess I really ironed the shit out of that suit jacket, didn’t I?” 

Blaine laughed lightly. “No one will even see it under your robe.” 

“Oh, no,” Kurt groaned. “Those god-awful polyester robes. I had forgotten all about them. You just ruined my day.”

Blaine took the teasing in good humor, a smile lighting up his face as Kurt swooned dramatically and flopped down onto their bed. 

“Alright, Olivier,” Blaine climbed up next to him and settled himself on his side, facing Kurt. “Save the drama for when you’re standing at the front of an open casting call line.”

“Such language,” Kurt’s tone was laced with faux outrage. “I cannot believe you would say such a thing on this joyous occasion.”

Blaine rolled his eyes fondly and was rewarded with a beaming smile from Kurt. 

“Thank you,” Kurt said after a moment.

“For what?” 

“You always know what to do when I’m in one of my moods,” Kurt pushed himself up on his elbows and smiled down at Blaine. 

“Not always,” Blaine amended.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Blaine said softly. “Now, aren’t you going to iron your robe?”

  
  


“Is he nervous?” Burt queried under his breath as he and Blaine filed into their seats.

Blaine raised his eyebrows. “Is the sky blue?”

Burt huffed out a laugh and took his seat. “Alright, alright, so it was a silly question. He just gets so worked up over this kind of stuff.”

“He gets worked up over everything, Burt,” Blaine draped his jacket over his lap and tucked his bag under his seat. “I talked to him, but he’s still worried.” 

“Worried?”

“He’s worried he won’t be able to find a job after graduation,” Blaine fixed Burt with a look, and Burt nodded slowly. 

“He will, though,” Burt said firmly. “He has more talent in his little finger than most of the kids here have in their whole body.” 

“I agree,” Blaine pulled out his phone to check the time. Twenty minutes and counting. 

Kurt was somewhere backstage in the main auditorium on the NYADA campus, no doubt complaining about his graduation robe wrinkling his suit and his cap flattening his hair. Blaine smiled to himself at the image, and was so caught up in his daydream that he didn’t hear someone calling his name. Burt poked him in the thigh and nodded to Blaine’s right when Blaine turned an annoyed look on him. 

Blaine shifted in his seat and looked up. Standing in front of the seat next to him was Carmen Tibideaux. Blaine fought back his immediate impulse to jump up and shake her hand. Instead, he smiled politely and said, “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Blaine,” she replied. “Are you here for Kurt?”

“Yes, I am,” Blaine kept his tone level, but his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. “He’s performing, if I remember correctly.”

“He is,” Carmen nodded. “He was in the top of his class, which comes with the honor of performing at the graduation ceremonies.”

“I knew he would do well,” Blaine raised his chin, almost defiantly, and smiled again. “I’m excited to see it.” 

“Blaine,” Carmen began, and Blaine’s stomach dropped to the floor. 

“Yes?” he asked faintly. 

“I owe you an apology.” 

Of everything Blaine had expected to hear, it wasn’t that. A snide remark about his current schooling situation, a comment on his bad posture, maybe a _ Did you ever really do anything with yourself after I cut you?  _ But definitely not an apology. 

“Since you left, we’ve had several meetings about the mental health and wellness of our students,” Carmen was saying, and Blaine forced himself to listen. “It was wrong of me to ignore your...spiral,” she used the word gracelessly, and Blaine felt Burt jump instinctively in the seat next to him. “I apologize for that.” 

It took Blaine a moment to find his words, but he finally said, “I appreciate your apology.” He didn’t say he forgave her, and he didn’t say thank you. 

She seemed to accept this, and with a tight smile she said, “It’s good to see you doing well. I hope NYU is everything NYADA couldn’t be.”   
Blaine nodded. 

“Mr. Hummel,” Carmen said then, and Blaine looked up at her again, only to blush when he realized she had meant Burt. “Your son is one of the most gifted students I have ever had the privilege of working with. He has a bright future.” 

“I’m very proud of him,” Burt said in a choked voice. “Thank you.” 

Carmen nodded her assent, and moved away without another word. 

Blaine exhaled slowly, one long breath out through his mouth, and sank down into his seat. “Oh, man.” 

“Weren’t expecting that, were you, Mr. Hummel?” Burt teased.

Blaine looked up quickly, and laughed at the grin on Burt’s face. “No, I certainly wasn’t, Mr. Hummel Sr.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Burt laughed. “Fine. It is on.”

“On?” Blaine mouthed to himself as the lights in the auditorium went down and the opening notes to Kurt’s song filled the air. 

When Kurt had first chosen this number, Blaine had wrinkled his nose and objected fiercely, but Kurt had said, “Without the children’s choir. Or the...whatever it is at the beginning.” 

The tasteful arrangement of Any Dream Will Do, sung in Kurt’s own octave, with nothing but a piano and a simple downlight follow spot brought goosebumps to Blaine’s skin, and when Kurt finished, he leapt out of his seat, tossing his jacket to the floor and applauded long enough that his hands stung for several minutes afterwards.

 

“So, how does it feel?” Blaine asked.

It was late afternoon now, and Blaine and Kurt were in their usual coffee shop, killing time before they met up with Burt for dinner. Kurt’s diploma was at home, hanging over the side table in the front hall, even though Kurt had protested. His college diploma being the first thing you saw when you came in the house was far too ostentatious. Burt and Blaine had steadfastly ignored him as they hung it, only allowing Kurt to contribute when he insisted they leave a space next to it for Blaine’s. 

Kurt raised an eyebrow at Blaine over the rim of his coffee cup. “How does what feel?” 

“The post-graduate lifestyle,” Blaine gestured vaguely towards Kurt with his free hand. “Do you feel untethered?” 

“No,” Kurt admitted, setting his cup down, but keeping his hands wrapped around it. “I actually feel much better.” 

“You never have to worry about your GPA,” Blaine grinned. “Ever again.”

“That’s more of a relief than I initially imagined it would be,” Kurt bit his lip and smiled down at his coffee. “Now that means I get to worry about yours.”

“Mine is near perfect,” Blaine said with a shrug. “It’s not that important.” 

“God,” Kurt murmured. 

“What?”

“Every so often you say such well-adjusted things. I don’t know how you do it.” 

“Hard work,” Blaine set his own cup down and reached under his seat for his bag. He set it on the seat next to him and pulled the polaroid camera out of it. “We have to commemorate this day.” 

“Fair enough,” Kurt said. “Just warn me if I’m going to be involved in any of the commemorative behaviors.”  
  
“It would be awfully boring if I tried to commemorate all by myself,” Blaine said teasingly. “I spent most of high school doing that. It got old.” 

Kurt grinned. “Being a married man has spoiled you.”

Blaine didn’t reply beyond a shrug. He finished off his coffee and let his eyes roam around the all-too familiar coffee shop. Kurt spent more time here than Blaine did, but Blaine still considered it a comfort to be in a place that they were both well accustomed to. It was a refurbished loft space, complete with exposed brick walls and large plate windows in the front of the building. The chairs were old leather, badly in need of reupholstering, but still comfortable, and the tables were of the mismatched variety you could only find in flea markets or coffee shops. Quiet piano music always filled the air, but if you came in on Wednesday, it was almost guaranteed that 80s music would be playing.

Despite that, Blaine’s favorite time to be there was around lunchtime, when rare New York sunshine filtered in the large windows and hit everything in the shop, casting both harsh white lines of light, and soft, yellow glows of warmth. Kurt would always position himself very far away from a window at that time of day, so the only light that reached him was fuzzy and amber colored. Blaine loved that. He loved the way Kurt looked, bathed in warm light and sighing contentedly over a steaming cup of coffee. 

It was too late in the day for that sunshine now, but Kurt still looked beautiful in the soft atmospheric lighting, and Blaine’s chest ached. Without thinking, Blaine picked up the camera and quickly took a picture of Kurt’s hands where they still rested, loosely holding his coffee cup.

“Alright, so now I know how you feel,” Kurt remarked as he watched Blaine remove the photo from the camera and give it a few shakes. 

“What are you going to do when you make it big?” Blaine asked. “People will want to take pictures of you and with you. You’ll have to get used to it eventually.” 

“Sure, and you, Mr. I Can’t Survive Without A Spotlight On Me will have absolutely no trouble dealing with that,” Kurt set his cup down and smiled at Blaine.

“I don’t know,” Blaine said. “They might have to up my anxiety meds, but I could probably handle it.” 

“Do you like them?” Kurt asked suddenly.

“Do I like what?” Blaine replied, puzzled. 

“Your medication.”

“I like not feeling bad,” Blaine said slowly. “I like feeling that I have some control over my behavior and to some extent, what goes on in my head.”

“So they help you?” Kurt’s head was turned away from Blaine, and his eyes were unfocused, staring at a fixed point on the floor near their table.  

“Somewhat,” Blaine furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Combined with therapy and a good support system and other things, they do help me.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“Why do you ask?” Blaine inquired, finally.

Kurt looked up at him, surprised. His eyes were wide and wet, and he fidgeted uncomfortably. “You know how, after I broke off our engagement, I was seeing a therapist?”

“Yes,” Blaine had only heard about Kurt’s therapist in passing, and Kurt had never gone back after he returned to New York. 

“I stopped seeing him,” Kurt said.

“I know.”

“Because he told me I might benefit from medication.” 

Blaine blanched. “Okay.” 

“I went to see a psychiatrist and everything,” Kurt wrapped his arms around his body defensively and shrank back into his seat. “She told me I probably I have OCD.”

Blaine nodded. He had recognized that in Kurt many times, and he saw it in their alphabetized, color coded movie shelf, Kurt’s thrice ironed graduation jacket, the stress cleaning, and the odd habit he had of constantly straightening wall-hangings, no matter where he was. 

“Why are you nodding?” Kurt asked sharply. 

“Because I’m listening to you,” Blaine was experienced in disarming Kurt, but sometimes it was a hard fought battle. This Kurt was one he wasn’t quite used to, and while the coffee shop was loud, he was hoping this situation wouldn’t spiral out of control. 

“Do you think I have OCD?” Kurt seemed hurt, but underneath his cutting tone there was an honest, almost pained, inquisitiveness. 

“I’ve noticed you do have a few habits that seem indicative of that, yes,” Blaine kept his tone light and nonchalant. “I’m not a doctor, though.” 

“How do you stand it?”

“How do I stand what?” Blaine asked, tracing his finger along a groove in the tabletop. “My medication?”  
  
“No,” Kurt said, and then, so softly Blaine almost didn’t hear it, “Me.”

Blaine’s head shot up. “What?” 

“Doesn’t it drive you nuts?”

Blaine was still shocked by Kurt’s question. He felt that he should have noticed Kurt was feeling this way, he should have insisted Kurt continue seeing someone, he should have done _something,_ but he hadn't noticed, and he hadn't known. “How long have you felt this way?”

Kurt shrugged. “You’re not answering my question.”

“First of all, Kurt, I don’t think we should really be worrying about what we may do that drives the other nuts, so to speak,” Blaine was totally out of his depth, but he forged ahead. “You once came home from rehearsal and found me naked in our living room watching Scooby Doo and crying about how much I wished they would have just let Daphne and Velma be lesbians.” 

“They would have been cute together,” Kurt conceded. “And you haven’t missed a dose of your medication since.”

“My point is,” Blaine continued, “We have been putting up with each other’s weirdness for a really long time, Kurt. You only really get bad when you’re stressed out, and I don’t mind. It’s not a great hardship to calm you down and remind you it’s alright if our shampoo bottles aren’t sorted by size. I worry more about how it makes you feel.”

“Like shit,” Kurt said flatly. 

“Then you should see someone,” Blaine said decidedly. “You shouldn’t feel that way. I’m still going to love you, even if you do have OCD. Even if you do have to start taking medication and I have to remind myself to look at the labels on the bottle before I just start taking things. It’ll be fine.” 

Kurt nodded. “Okay.” 

Blaine decided that as much as he hated to ignore the tears building in Kurt’s eyes, Kurt needed a moment. Just as he was about to say something, Kurt’s phone rang. 

“It’s my dad,” Kurt said uselessly as he stared down at the screen. 

“Do you want me to-”

“Yes,” Kurt slid his phone across the table to Blaine and stood up. “I’ll be right back.” 

Blaine nodded quickly and answered the phone. “Hey, Burt.”

“What’s up?” Burt asked, obviously confused. 

“Kurt’s in the restroom.” 

“Is he alright?” 

“Yeah, he’ll be okay,” Blaine said, stacking his empty cup inside Kurt’s and putting the camera back in his bag. “He’ll talk to you about it at dinner, I think.” 

“Alright,” Burt acquiesced. “I just wanted to make sure our plans were still the same.”

“Actually, it might be better if you came to the house,” Blaine said, hoping his executive decision would be favorably received.

“Should I bring anything?” 

Blaine relaxed slightly, immediately grateful for Burt’s lack of questioning. “Whatever you think Kurt would like best.” 

“Got it,” Burt replied. “See you in a bit.” 

Blaine murmured his thanks and hung up the phone. 

“I love you,” Kurt’s voice came from immediately behind him, and Blaine jumped slightly in his seat. 

“I love you, too,” he said as Kurt slid back into the chair across the table. “Burt’s going to meet us at home.”

“I know he is,” Kurt smiled at Blaine. “Thank you.”

Blaine took Kurt’s gratitude in stride. “You’re welcome. Now let’s go home and take a commemorative shower.”


	10. +1 (2017)

“Those are my meds,” Kurt said, and Blaine froze immediately, with one hand halfway to his mouth.

“Shit,” Blaine passed Kurt the small white pill and looked through the drawer for his own. “They could make them different colors or something, at least.”

It wasn't the first time Blaine had almost taken the wrong medication, and he would have thought that by now, he would have learned. It was routine now. Blaine had been taking his medication for over a year, and Kurt for almost six months. When morning coffee was poured, prescription bottles were lined up, and as time went by, it became less of a ceremony and more of a habit. Muscle memory of a kind.

Blaine was doing his due diligence at NYU, and Kurt was working with a company so far Off-Broadway they hadn't even bothered to count the number of ‘off’s, but it was a job, after all.

Evenings they poured more coffee, Blaine took more meds, and they sat on the sofa in Kurt’s office and worked their way through Blaine’s syllabus. Right now, they were stuck on the post-classic classics. Kurt held aloft a well worn copy of Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, and read to Blaine, whose head was resting on Kurt’s lap. It was the only way Blaine was able to sit still long enough to process the old language and the dated ideals.

“This would be better if it was gay,” Blaine commented idly just as Martha stormed up the stairs to get revenge on her husband by sleeping with another man. Or something.

“That's true about everything,” Kurt replied. “When I read this in high school I thought the same thing.”

“I would have to be Martha,” Blaine continued. “She's feisty.”

“Who's afraid of Blaine Anderson-Hummel?” Kurt recited, his voice pitched low and booming.

Blaine brought a hand to his forehead and in falsetto said, “I am, Kurt. I am.”

“I can't wait until you have to read Gone With The Wind,” Kurt remarked dryly as he set aside the book and began running his fingers through Blaine’s hair.

“Frankly, my dear,” Blaine adopted a phony baritone similar to Kurt’s, and grinned. “I read it in high school. It’s a classic, apparently.”

“Oh for sure,” Kurt agreed sarcastically. “Racism is timeless.”

“Who decides what a classic is, anyway? Trainspotting is going to be a classic, eventually. The day something like Gone Girl shows up on an English syllabus will be the day we are officially old, Kurt.”

“I can't wait,” Kurt said solemnly. “But for now, shouldn't we finish this classic right here? It's not too racist, and it's only borderline misogynist. I’m pretty sure it could still be called sexist.”

“Read on, husband,” Blaine turned his head into the plane of Kurt’s stomach and closed his eyes. “I’ll be here.”

 

“Hypothetically, if we wanted to have another person live here, who would give up their space?”

Blaine looked up from his transposing work to level Kurt with a surprised look. “Who’s moving in? Hypothetically.”

“Someone very short.”

“Under no circumstances is Rachel Berry allowed to move in with us. There would be bloodshed, Kurt.”

“Rachel and I lived together before,” Kurt reminded him. “It was fine.”

“No. It would be on my part. I would kill her. She would wake me up at the crack of dawn doing scales all of once and I’d bean her with a coffee cup, or she’d say something rude to you and I would strangle her with a tie.”

“That’s...really violent and you should probably talk to Joe about these feelings. But I didn't mean Rachel,” Kurt pushed himself into a sitting position and ran a hand through his hair. He had been reclining on the recently installed window seat in Blaine’s music room, letting the sunshine dapple his skin. “What if we had kids, Blaine? Would we move? Would we put my desk in here? What would we do?”

Somewhere during that speech Blaine had dropped his pencil.

“Kids?”

Kurt looked up. “We both want that, right?”

“Now?”

“No, Blaine,” Kurt said calmly, and when Blaine raised an eyebrow at his patronizing tone, he sighed and leaned back against the window. “Sorry. Yes, now. Or soon.”

“I don't know if I could not have my own space, Blaine said after a long moment. “I can call a real estate agent, though.”

“Don't you think we should call someone with a uterus, first?” Kurt was smiling now, teasing and affectionate.

“Details, details,” Blaine waved his hand dismissively. “Don't bother me with details. I have to call the piano movers.”

“Yes, you do that,” Kurt said with a laugh as he lay back down on the seat and reached up an arm to watch the patches of sunlight move over the veins in the back of his hands. “We’ll argue over whose genetics are better at a later date.”

“I heard that,” Blaine said sharply. “I'll have you know it is my duty as an Anderson to pass my hair along to at least one of my progeny.”

“Alright, well I guess we’ll just stick it all in a Petri dish together and hope they get your hair and my eyes.”

“I certainly hope it's more scientific than that,” Blaine wrinkled his nose slightly, but quickly shrugged it off. “Besides, they'll have both of our combined talents, that way.”

“Oh, God,” Kurt gasped. “No, we can't do this.”

“Why not?” Blaine demanded, more affronted than alarmed.

“If you contribute to the gene pool,” Kurt stage whispered. “They might grow up to be _short._ ”

“That was low,” Blaine said calmly. “But here's something else to consider. If I don't contribute to the gene pool, they'll grow up to be _white_.”

“Alright, that's fair,” Kurt folded his hands over his chest and smiled winningly at Blaine. “So when are we moving?”

  


“Rami said something interesting today,” Kurt said offhandedly as he sat down at the table across from Blaine.

Blaine paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth, surprised by the mention of Kurt’s therapist. Kurt was rarely forthcoming about his time spent at therapy, and Blaine respected the close mouthed approach to recovery that Kurt was taking. He searched for an appropriate response and decided the table was open for a joke. “Is this the first time he’s done that? He hasn’t had a single interesting thing to say in eight months?”

“No, silly,” Kurt smiled tolerantly and tapped his fingernails in rhythm against his coffee cup. “He told me that happiness has a shape.”

Blaine set his sandwich down. “Huh.”

“Huh?” Kurt took a few sips of coffee. “Cogently put, Mr. Anderson.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” Blaine corrected automatically. “I’m assuming you’re going to explain.”

“Sorry,” Kurt set his cup down and stared at a point behind Blaine. “He said that when he was a kid, his mother kept canaries in a cage in their kitchen. When she was washing dishes, she would sing, and the canaries would tweet along with her. Apparently, Rami’s idea of happiness is a canary.”

“That’s...interesting,” Blaine looked down at his plate. “So he feels the same way about songbirds that I feel about this sandwich?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s ham and swiss, actually.”

“Blaine, you’re being evasive.”

“Alright,” Blaine sighed resignedly and pushed his plate away. He leaned back in his chair and made himself meet Kurt’s eyes. “Joe said something like that when I first started.”

“What did she say?”

“Happiness is, apparently, all in your mind, and you have to work very hard to create it.”

“That makes more sense than canaries,” Kurt reached over and took a grape off of Blaine’s plate. “I’m assuming you’re going to explain.”

“She said that happiness isn’t a metaphor, but if you were going to ascribe one to it, pick the way you feel at your favorite time of day.”

“That’s…” Kurt frowned, bewildered. “An interesting concept.”

“Mine is early morning.”

“Sorry?”

“You know. We’re early risers. We brush our teeth, we pour coffee, you go for a run, and I sit in the kitchen and watch the elderly couple across the street.”

“That’s when you’re happiest? Spying on old people?”

“That’s very funny,” Blaine toyed with his wedding ring, twisting it around his finger, an idle habit he had picked up almost immediately after he’d started wearing the ring. “But no. That’s my favorite time of day. It’s peaceful and quiet, as much as it can be in New York, and when I was in high school, it was after my dad left for work and before my mom was awake, so I had the house to myself. I’ve just always liked that time of day.”

He stopped himself from saying he liked Kurt best in the morning because Kurt was so lovely when he was half-asleep, his voice thick and raspy, his hair mussed and eyes bleary. Kurt was something of a morning person, and always awoke with a soft smile on his face, and when he stretched his arms over his head and arched his back off the bed, sometimes he would moan softly. He always said, “Good morning,” when he noticed Blaine was watching him, and never seemed to mind that it happened as often as it did.

“That’s reasonable,” Kurt said. “I would have to give that some thought.”

Blaine nodded and reached for his sandwich. He knew that Kurt wasn’t saying he liked mornings best too, because the air was cool and good for running, and the hour after he took his medication was the easiest time of day for him. Blaine was always slightly grumpy in the morning, but he was warm, and when he was still barely awake his body was relaxed and pliant, which meant Kurt could press his cold toes against Blaine’s calves and the only reprimand would be a strangled, horrified grunt.

Kurt wouldn’t kiss him until they had both brushed their teeth, a habit Blaine was still trying to break him of, but they had many years ahead of them to work on it. When they were clean and ready for the day, Kurt would take his headphones and his water bottle and after pressing a long, coffee flavored kiss to Blaine’s mouth, he would go for a run. He would come back sweaty, and Blaine would kiss him again.

Blaine ate his sandwich slowly and watched the gentle smile on Kurt’s face grow into something soft and wistful.

“If your happiness had a shape, though, what would it be?” Kurt broke the silence just as Blaine took a bite.

“This sandwich,” Blaine replied, speaking with his mouth full because he knew how much Kurt hated it.

True to his character, Kurt wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. “That’s disgusting.”

“Don’t ask me existential questions when I’m trying to eat a ham sandwich, Kurt,” Blaine chided teasingly. “You answer that one first.”

“Your hands.”

“Excuse me?”

“First part of you I touched,” Kurt said simply.

“Oh,” Blaine said. “That’s a shape?”

“Is a canary really a shape?”

“Good point.”

“Is that weird?” Kurt fidgeted in his seat and stared down into his cold coffee. A flush of embarrassment rose in his cheeks.

“No, Kurt, no,” Blaine said quickly. “That’s not weird at all. It’s really sweet, actually.”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Kurt muttered, but he was smiling.

“Your happiness is my hands?”

Kurt shrugged. “I needed you before I met you, and you were in the right place at the right time.”

“Kurt-”

“I’ve told you this before, right? You’re the one who made the grand proposal speech. Maybe I didn’t tell you,” Kurt bit his lip nervously. “You took my hand and I really wished I knew you better, because I wouldn’t have minded at all if that became a habit. Every time I look at your hands I remember how I felt when you took my hand for the first time, and I remember that feeling as _safe_ and _warm_ and _finally_.”

Tears rolled down Blaine’s cheeks, unbidden.

“And now you’re wearing my ring. I look at your hands and you’re wearing my ring, and it’s still _safe_ and _warm_ , but now it’s also _forever_.”

It was quiet, save for Blaine’s sniffling. The kitchen clock ticked, and Kurt drank his coffee, even though it was cold, for want of something better to do. Kurt rarely verbalized his feelings like this. Blaine had heard from Burt that Kurt had used the words _safe_ and _connected,_ but it was one thing to hear from your father-in-law and be sworn to secrecy, and another to hear it straight from a man who used to start fights with you just to avoid talking about his feelings.

“That’s much better than a canary,” Blaine finally said, his voice wavering.

Kurt laughed lightly. “Nothing romantic about canaries.”

“I love you,” Blaine said fiercely.

Kurt nodded, waiting for Blaine to wipe the tears away and take a deep breath.

“I love you, too,” Kurt smiled affectionately at Blaine. “Can I have the rest of your sandwich?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, can you believe it's actually over. wow. this is officially the longest writing project i have ever completed. thanks again to artemis for their beta, and thank you to everyone who said nice things, left kudos, or made it as far as this closing note.


End file.
